“Here we are,” Ahm Lin spread his arms wide as they arrived at the rear of the workshop where a large bench was covered in a bewildering array of neatly arranged tools, hammers, chisels and oddly shaped implements Vaelin couldn’t name. Nearby a ladder was propped against a large block of marble from which a partly completed statue emerged from the stone. Vaelin drew up in shock at the sight of it. The snout, the ears, the finely carved fur, and the eyes, those unmistakable eyes. His song was singing a clear and warm note of recognition. The wolf. The wolf that had saved him in the Urlish. The wolf that had howled its warning outside the house of the Fifth Order when Sister Henna came to kill him. The wolf that had restrained him from murder in the Martishe.
“Ah…” Ahm Lin’s rubbed at his temples, his expression pained. “Your song is strong indeed, brother.”
“Sorry.” Vaelin concentrated, trying to calm the song, but it was a few seconds before it subsided. “Is it a god?” he asked Ahm Lin, gazing up at the wolf.
“Not quite. One of what the Alpirans call the Nameless, spirits of the mysteries. The wolf features in many of the named gods’ stories, as guide, protector, warrior or spirit of vengeance. But it is never named. It is only ever just the wolf, feared and respected in equal measure.” He regarded Vaelin with an intent gaze. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? And not captive in stone.”
Vaelin was momentarily wary of disclosing too much to this man, a stranger with a song that had nearly killed him after all. But the warmth of his own song’s welcome overcame his distrust. “It saved me. Twice from death, once from something worse.”
Ahm Lin’s expression showed a brief flicker of something close to fear but he quickly forced a smile. “Interesting seems an inadequate term for you, brother. This is for you.” He gestured to a nearby work bench where a block of marble rested, a chisel sitting atop it. The block was a perfect cube of white marble, the same block from his vision when Ahm Lin’s song had laid him low, its surface smooth under Vaelin’s fingers.
“You obtained this for me?” he asked.
“Many years ago. My song was most emphatic. Whatever rests inside has been waiting a long time for you to set it free.”
Waiting… Vaelin flattened his palm against the stone, feeling a surge from the blood-song, the tune a mix of warning and certainty. The one who waits.
He lifted the chisel, touching the blade tentatively to the stone. “I’ve never done this,” he told Ahm Lin. “Can’t even carve a decent walking stick.”
“Your song will guide your hands, as mine guides me. These statues are as much the work of my song as my skill.”
He was right, the song was building, strong and clear, guiding the chisel over the stone. He hefted a mallet from the bench and tapped the butt of the chisel, chipping a small piece of marble from the edge of the cube. The song surged and his hands moved, Ahm Lin and the workshop fading as the work consumed him. There were no thoughts in his head, no distractions, there was just the song and the stone. He had no sense of time, no perception of the world beyond the song and it was only a rough shake to the shoulder that brought him back.
“Vaelin!” Barkus shook him again when he didn’t respond. “What are you doing?”
Vaelin looked at the tools in his dust caked hands, noting his cloak and weapons laying nearby and having no memory of removing them. The stone was radically altered, the top half now a roughly hewn dome with two shallow indentations in the centre and the ghost of a chin forming at the base.
“Standing here hammering away with no weapons and no guard,” Barkus sounded more shocked than angry. “Any passing Alpiran could have stuck you without breaking sweat.”
“I… ” Vaelin blinked at him in confusion. “I was…” He trailed off realising any explanation was pointless.
Ahm Lin and the woman who had answered the door were standing nearby, the woman glaring at the two soldiers Barkus had brought with him. Ahm Lin was more relaxed, idly guiding a whetstone over the tip of one of his chisels, favouring Vaelin with a slight smile of what might have been admiration.
Barkus’s gaze shifted to the stone then back to Vaelin, a frown creasing his heavy brows. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Vaelin reached for a piece of linen and draped it over the stone. “What do you want, brother?” He was unable to keep the irritation from his tone.
“Sister Gilma needs you. At the Governor’s mansion.”
Vaelin shook his head impatiently, reaching again for his tools. “Caenis deals with the Governor. Send him.”
“He has been sent for. She needs you as well.”
“I’m sure it can wait…” Barkus’s hand was tight on his wrist, putting his lips close to Vaelin’s ear and whispering two words which made him drop his tools and reach for his cloak and weapons without further demur, despite the immediate howl of protest from the blood-song.
“The Red Hand.” Sister Gilma stood on the other side of the mansion gate, having forbidden them from coming any closer. For once there was no trace of mirth in her tone or bearing. Her face was pale, her usually bright eyes dimmed with fear. “Just the governor’s daughter for now, but there’ll be others.”
“You’re certain?” Vaelin asked her.
“Every member of my order is taught to look for the signs from the moment we join. There’s no doubt, brother.”
“You examined the girl? You touched her?”
Gilma nodded wordlessly.