“You are the heir to the Lordship of this land,” Vaelin pointed out. “It seems an unlikely ambition never to return to it.”
“Oh, I was never meant to sit on the Chair. That honour would have been afforded Hentes, my murderous sibling, whom my father loved dearly. Must’ve broken the old bastard’s heart when he lost him to the priests. He was always the favoured son, you see. Best with the bow, best with the sword, quick of wit, tall and handsome. Sired three bastards of his own by his twenty-fifth year.”
“He doesn’t sound like the most devout of men,” Prince Malcius observed.
“He wasn’t.” Lord Mustor took a long gulp from his flask causing Vaelin to suspect it contained more than water. “But that was before he took an arrow in the face during a skirmish with some outlaws. My father’s surgeon removed the arrowhead but my brother took a fever and lay near death for several days, at one point it’s said his heart stopped beating. But the Father saw fit to spare him, and once recovered he was a changed man. The handsome carousing, wench-chasing warrior became a scarred, pious devotee of the ten books. Hentes True-blade they called him. He cut himself off from his old friends, shunned his many lovers, sought out the company of the most ardent and radical priests. He began to preach, passionate sermons describing the visions he had seen as he lay dying. He claimed the World Father had spoken to him, shown him the glorious path to redemption. Much of which apparently involves converting you foreign heathens to the teachings of the ten books, at sword point if necessary. My father had little choice but to send him away, along with his ever growing band of followers.”
“And you say he believes your god told him to assassinate your father?” the Prince asked.
“My brother’s beliefs are not always easily understood, even by his disciples. But the very notion of the Fief Lord of Cumbrael abasing himself to King Janus would have been anathema, especially since it resulted from what he sees as Brother Vaelin’s persecution of the holy warriors in the Martishe. So he invited my father to a meeting, under the pretence of seeking a return from exile, and there, with no guards to protect him, he killed him.”
He paused to drink again, his gaze lingering on Vaelin. “My sources write that your name is known in Cumbrael now, brother. Hentes may be the True-blade, but you are the Darkblade. It’s from the Fifth Book, the Book of Prophecy. Centuries ago a seer spoke of a near-invincible heretic swordsman: ‘He will smite the holy and strike down those who labour in the service of the World Father. Know him by his blade for it was forged in an unnatural fire and guided by the voice of the Dark.’”
Darkblade? Vaelin thought of the blood-song and what Nersus Sil Nin had told him of its origins. Perhaps they have it right. He got to his feet. “We’d best press on.”
“Well that’s a lot of fucking use!” Brother Commander Makril spat on the ground near Lord Mustor’s feet.
The Fief Lord drew back, a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “It was open ten years ago,” he said, a faint whine colouring in his voice.
Vaelin peered into the tunnel entrance, a narrow crack in a windswept cliff-face they would have barely noticed if Lord Mustor hadn’t pointed it out. In the gloom of the tunnel entrance he could just make out the source of Makril’s anger; a pile of huge boulders sealed the passage from floor to ceiling. The mass of rock was far too heavy to move with their small force. Makril was right, the tunnel was useless.
“I don’t understand it,” Lord Mustor was saying. “It was as well built as it could be. No-one save my father and I knew of its existence.”
Vaelin moved into the tunnel, running a hand over the surface of one of the boulders, feeling how it was smooth in one place and rough in another, his fingers finding the hard edges left by a chisel. “This stone has been worked loose. Recently, if I’m any judge.”
“It appears your greatest secret has been betrayed, my lord,” Prince Malcius observed. “If, as you say, your father favoured your brother over you, he may have felt it appropriate to share the secret with him.”
“What are we to do?” Lord Mustor asked plaintively. “There is no other way into the High Keep.”
“Except by siege,” the prince said. “And we have not the time, men or engines for that.”
Vaelin emerged from the tunnel. “Is there a vantage point nearby where we can view the keep without being seen?”
It was a perilous climb up a narrow, rock strewn path but they made good time, despite Lord Mustor’s constant grumbling about his blistered feet. Eventually they came to a ledge shielded from the wind by a large outcrop of rock.