He strode forward to greet the prince as the regiment quickly formed companies and stood to attention, raising a thick cloud of dust in the process. The prince’s party reined in as Vaelin sank to one knee, head bowed. “Highness.”
“Get up, brother,” Prince Malcius told him. “We have scant time for ceremony. Here.” He tossed Vaelin a scroll bearing the King’s seal. “Your orders. This regiment is at my disposal until further notice.” He glanced over his shoulder and Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to the hunched figure mounted in the front rank of the guards, a sallow faced man with red rimmed eyes and heavy brows denoting an extended period of over-indulgence. “You’ve met Lord Mustor before I believe,” Prince Malcius said.
“I have. My condolences on your father’s passing, my lord.” If the heir to Cumbrael noticed his offer of commiseration he gave no sign, squirming uncomfortably in his saddle and yawning.
“Lord Mustor will be accompanying us,” the prince informed him. He glanced around at the neatly arranged ranks. “Are they ready to march?”
“At your command, Highness.”
“Then let’s not dally. We will take the northern road and be at the bridge over the Brinewash by nightfall.”
Vaelin did a rough calculation of the distance. Nearly twenty miles, and on the northern road, away from the Realm Guard’s route. He pushed the torrent of questions to the back of his mind and gave a formal nod. “Very well, Highness.”
“I will proceed ahead and make camp.” The prince favoured him with a brief smile. “We’ll talk tonight. No doubt you’ll wish an explanation for all this.”
He spurred his horse and rode off at the gallop followed closely by the company of guardsmen. As they rode past Vaelin picked out another familiar face amongst the riders, a thin youthful face framed by a mane of black curls. His eyes met Vaelin’s briefly, an earnest expression seeking recognition, approval. Alucius Al Hestian. So he will ride to war after all. Vaelin turned away and began shouting orders.
Night was already drawing in when the regiment reached the timber bridge over the broad torrent of the Brinewash river. Vaelin ordered the camp raised and pickets posted. “No rum ration until this is over,” he told Sergeant Krelnik, dismounting from Spit and rubbing the ache in his back. “I expect several more days of hard marching. Don’t want the men’s feet slowed by liquor. Any man who complains can take it up with me personally.”
“There’ll be no complaints, my lord,” Krelnik assured him before striding off, his harsh gravelled voice casting forth a torrent of orders.
Leaving Spit in the care of a brother in Makril’s command he found the Prince’s party encamped near a willow tree close to the bridge. “Lord Vaelin,” Captain Smolen greeted him formally, snapping off a precise salute. “Good to see you again.”
“Captain.” Vaelin was still cautious of the Captain after his part in placing him in Princess Lyrna’s company. Still, it seemed churlish to hold it against him, he could understand how a man would find it all too easy to accede to her persuasion.
“Must say I’m glad of the chance to be a soldier again.” Captain Smolen inclined his head at the campfire where a huddled, cloaked figure stared into the flames, taking occasional sips from a wine bottle. “I feel I have been nurse-maiding the new Fief Lord long enough.”
“He is a demanding charge then?”
“Hardly. My duties consist mainly of keeping him supplied with wine and refusing to procure him a whore. If he’s not asking for either he rarely says anything.” The Captain gestured at the tent pitched nearby. “His Highness said to bid you enter as soon as you arrive.”
He found the prince hunched over a table, his gaze fixed on the map spread out before him. Seated in the corner of the tent Alucius Al Hestian looked up from the scroll on which he had been writing.
“Brother,” the prince greeted him warmly, coming forward to take his hand. “Your men made good time. I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”
“The regiment marches well, Highness.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. They’ll have many more miles to cover before we’re done.” He moved back to the table, glancing at Alucius. “Some wine for Brother Vaelin, Alucius.”
“Thank you, Highness, but I would prefer water.”
“As you wish.”
The young poet poured a goblet of water from a flask and handed it to Vaelin, his expression was guarded but still eager for acknowledgement. “I am glad to see you again, my lord.”
“And I you, sir.” His tone was neutral but, from the way Alucius drew back, he knew his face must have betrayed his thoughts.
“Check on the horses will you, Alucius?” the prince asked. “Ranger gets feisty when he’s not groomed properly.”
“I will, Highness.” Alucius bowed and departed, casting another guarded look in Vaelin’s direction before the tent flap closed behind him.
“He begged me,” Prince Malcius said. “Said he would follow us even if I commanded him not to. I made him my squire, what else could I do?”