“We’ll see you in the Realm, My Lord!” Gallis said, snapping off an impeccable salute and marching onto the ship, quickly followed by Krelnik and Noren.
The Cumbraelin archers were the last contingent onto the ships. He had offered to place them ahead of the Renfaelins for fear they may suspect some perfidious Darkblade plot to abandon them to the Alpirans, but Bren Antesh had surprised him by insisting they wait until all others had gone. He supposed there was a possibility of ambush, he was alone with a thousand men who saw him as an enemy of their god after all, but they all trooped onto the ships without trouble, most either ignoring him or offering nods of wary respect.
“They’re grateful for their lives,” Antesh said, reading his expression. “But they’ll be dammed if they’ll say it. So I will.” He bowed, Vaelin realising it was the first time he had done so.
“You’re welcome, Captain.”
Antesh straightened, glanced at the waiting ship and then back at Vaelin. “This is the last ship, my lord.”
“I know.”
Antesh raised his eyebrows as realisation dawned. “You don’t intend to return to the Realm.”
“I have business elsewhere.”
“You shouldn’t linger here. All these people have to offer you is an ugly death.”
“Is that what happens to the Darkblade in the prophecy?”
“Hardly. He is seduced by a sorceress who makes herself a queen with the power to conjure fire from the air. Together they wreak terrible ruin on the world until her fire consumes him in the throes of their sinful passion.”
“Well, at least I have that to look forward to.” He returned Antesh’s bow. “Luck to you, Captain.”
“I have something to tell you,” Antesh said, his normally placid features sombre. “I did not always carry the name Antesh. Once I had another name, one you know.”
The blood-song surged, not in warning, but clear and strident triumph. “Tell me,” he said.
Ahm Lin’s burns had healed well but his scars would linger for the rest of his life. A large patch of puckered, discoloured tissue marred the right side of his face from cheek to neck and similarly ugly scars were visible on his arms and chest. Despite this he appeared as affable as ever, although his sadness at what Vaelin asked of him was obvious.
“She has preserved me, cared for me,” he said. “To do such a thing…”
“Would you do any less for your wife?” Vaelin asked.
“I would follow my song, brother. Are you?”
He recalled the pure, triumphant note of the blood-song as he had listened to what Antesh had to say. “More closely than I ever have before.” He met the mason’s gaze. “Will you do this thing I ask?”
“It seems our songs are in agreement, so I have little choice.”
Sherin knocked at the door and entered bearing a bowl of soup. “He needs to eat,” she said, placing the bowl next to the mason’s bed and turning to Vaelin. “And you need to help me pack.”
Vaelin touched Ahm Lin briefly on the hand by way of thanks and followed her from the room. She had taken over Sister Gilma’s old quarters in the basement of the Guild House and was busily sorting out which of the myriad bottles and boxes of curatives to take with her. “I’ve managed to procure a small chest for your things,” she told him, moving to a shelf where her hand traced along the line of bottles, picking out some, leaving others.
“I only have these,” he replied, taking a bundle from his cloak and handing it to her, the wooden blocks Frentis had brought him wrapped in Sella’s scarf. “Not much of a dowry, I know.”
She gently undid the scarf, fingers pausing to play over the intricate design. “Very fine. Where did you come by this?”
“A gift of thanks from a beautiful maiden.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“Hardly. She’s half a world away and, I suspect, married to a handsome blonde fellow we used to know.”
Sherin pulled the blocks apart. “Winterbloom.”
“From my sister.”
“You have a sister? A blood-sister?”
“Yes. I only met her once. We spoke of flowers.”
She reached to clasp his hand summoning an overpowering need for her, so fierce and powerful as to almost make him forget what he had asked of Ahm Lin, forget the Aspect, the war, the whole sorry blood-soaked tale. Almost.
“Governor Aruan is arranging the ship, but we have hours yet,” he said, moving to the table where she prepared her concoctions, sitting down to unstopper a bottle of wine. “Quite possibly the last bottle of Cumbraelin red left in the city. Will you drink with a former Lord Marshal of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment of Foot, Sword of the Realm and brother of the Sixth Order?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Have I saddled myself with a drunkard, I wonder?”
He reached for two cups and poured a measure of red in each. “Just have a drink, woman.”
“Yes my lord,” she said in mock servility, sitting opposite and reaching for a cup. “Did you tell them?”
“Just Barkus. The others think I’m following on the last ship.”
“We could still go back. With the war over…”