Vaelin felt a faint murmur from the blood-song and the hammering from the interior of the shop fell silent. A male voice called out in Alpiran and the woman gave a grimace of annoyance before glaring at Vaelin and stepping aside. “Sacred things here,” she said as he entered. “Gods curse you if you steal.”
The interior of the shop was cavernous, the ceiling high and the marble-tile floor covering thirty paces square. Sunlight streamed through opened skylights, illuminating a space filled with statuary. Their size varied, some a foot or two in height, others life sized, one was at least ten feet tall of an impossibly well-muscled man wrestling a lion. Vaelin was struck by the vitality of the form, the precision with which it had been carved, seemingly freezing the giant and the lion at the moment of greatest violence. There was another smaller statue nearby, a life size woman of arresting beauty, her arms outstretched in supplication and her fine features frozen in an expression of depthless sorrow.
“Herlia, goddess of justice, weeping as she passes her first judgement.” On hearing the voice, the blood-song rose in pitch, not in warning but in welcome. The man stood with his hands on his hips, a chisel and hammer hanging from the pockets of his apron. He was short but well built, his bare arms knotted with muscle. His face was angular with high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes, and the parts of his skin not covered in dust had a faint golden sheen.
“You are not Alpiran,” Vaelin said.
“Neither are you,” the man replied with a laugh. “Yet here we both are.” He turned to the woman and said something in Alpiran. She gave Vaelin a parting glare and disappeared into the rear of the shop.
Vaelin nodded at the statue. “Why is she so sad?”
“She fell in love with a mortal man, but his passion for her drove him to commit a terrible crime and so she judged him, consigning him to the depths of the earth, chained to a rock where his flesh is eternally eaten by vermin.”
“It must have been quite a crime.”
“Indeed, he stole a magic sword and with it slew a god thinking him a rival for her affections. In fact he was her brother, Ixtus, god of dreams. Now, whenever we suffer nightmares it is the shade of the fallen god taking his revenge on mortal kind.”
“A god is a lie. But it’s a good story.” He held out his hand. “Vaelin Al Sorna…”
“Brother of the Sixth Order, Sword of the Unified Realm and now commander of the foreign army occupying our city. An interesting fellow indeed, but us Singers usually are. The song leads us down so many paths.” The man shook his hand. “Ahm Lin, humble stonemason, at your service.”
“All your work?” Vaelin asked, gesturing at the array of statuary.
“In a manner of speaking.” Ahm Lin turned and moved deeper into the workshop, Vaelin following, his gaze drinking in the carnival of fantastic shapes, the seemingly endless variety of form and tableaux. “Are they all gods?” he asked.
“Not all. Here,” Ahm Lin paused next to a bust of a grave faced man with a hooknose and heavy, deeply furrowed brows. “Emperor Cammuran, the first man to sit on the throne of the Alpiran empire.”
“He seems troubled.”
“He had good reason. His son tried to kill him when he realised he wasn’t going to be the next emperor. The idea of choosing a successor from amongst the people, with the gods’ help of course, was a dramatic break with tradition.”
“What happened to the son?”
“The emperor stripped him of his wealth, had his tongue cut out and his eyes blinded, then sent him forth to live out his days as a beggar. Most Alpirans think he was being unduly lenient. They are a fine people, courteous and generous to a fault, but unforgiving when roused. You should remember that, brother.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance when he failed to reply. “I must say I’m surprised your song led you here. You must know this invasion is doomed.”
“My song has been… inconsistent of late. It has told me little for a long time. Until I heard your voice, it had been silent for over a year.”
“Silent.” Ahm Lin seemed shocked, his gaze becoming curious. “What was it like?” He sounded almost envious.
“Like losing a limb,” Vaelin replied honestly, realising for the first time the depth of loss he had felt when his song fell silent. It was only now it had returned that he accepted the truth, the song was not an affliction. Sella had been right; it was a gift, and he had grown to cherish it.