The King’s gaze lingered on the Aspect for a moment before he turned to Vaelin, his lips forming a smile beneath his beard. “Note the tone, my boy. No respect but no defiance either. You’d do well to learn it. I suspect your Aspect is angry with me. Why can that be I wonder?”

Vaelin looked at the Aspect who stood expressionless, offering no reply.

“Well?” the King pressed. “Tell me, brother. What could have aroused the anger of your Aspect?”

“I cannot speak for my Aspect, Highness. The Aspect speaks for me.”

The King snorted a laugh and smacked his palm on the desk. “You hear it, Arlyn? His mother’s voice. Clear as a bell. Don’t you find it chilling at times?”

Aspect Arlyn’s tone was unchanged. “No, Highness.”

“No.” The King shook his head, chuckling slightly and reaching for a wine decanter on his desk. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He poured himself a glass of wine and settled back into his chair. “Your Aspect,” he told Vaelin, “is angry because he believes I have set the Realm on the road to war. He believes, with some justification I might add, that the Fief Lord of Cumbrael will happily let me hack his drunken son’s head from his shoulders before setting foot outside his own borders. This in turn will force me to send the Realm Guard into his fief to root him out. Battles and bloodshed will result, towns and cities will burn, many will die. Despite his vocation as a warrior, and therefore a practitioner of death in all its many forms, the Aspect believes this to be a regrettable action. And yet he will not tell me so. It has always been his way.”

Silence reigned as the two men matched stares and Vaelin experienced a sudden revelation: They hate each other. The King and the Aspect of the Sixth Order detest the sight of one another.

“Tell me, brother,” the King went on, addressing Vaelin but keeping his eyes on the Aspect. “What do you think the Fief Lord will do when he hears I have taken his son and commanded his presence?”

“I do not know the man, Highness…”

“He’s not a complicated fellow, Vaelin. Reckon it out. I daresay you’ve enough of your mother’s wit for that.”

Vaelin found himself disliking the way the King’s tongue twisted around the mention of his mother but forced out a reply “He will be… angry. He will see your action as a threat. He will be put on guard, gathering his forces and watching his borders.”

“Good. What else will he do?”

“It seems he has but two choices, to follow your command or ignore it and face war.”

“Wrong, he has a third choice. He can attack. With all his might. Do you think he will do that?”

“I doubt Cumbrael would have the strength to face the Realm Guard, Highness.”

“And you would be correct. Cumbrael has no actual army beyond a few hundred guardsmen loyal to the Fief Lord. What it does have is thousands of peasant bowmen it can call upon in time of need. A formidable force, having ridden through an arrow storm or two in my time, I would know. But no cavalry, no heavy infantry. No chance, in fact, of attacking Asrael or matching the Realm Guard in open field. The Fief Lord of Cumbrael is far from being an admirable character but he does have enough of his father’s brains to heed a reminder of his weakness.”

The King smiled again, turning away from the Aspect and waving a hand in placation. “Oh don’t worry Arlyn. In a fortnight or so the Fief Lord will send his messenger with a suitably grovelling apology for not attending in person and a plausible, if not very convincing, explanation for the letters, probably attached to a chest full of gold. I will be persuaded by my wise and peace-loving son to withdraw my command and release the drunkard. Thereafter, I doubt the Fief Lord will be giving any more letters of free passage to denier fanatics. More importantly he’ll have remembered his place in this Realm.”

“Am I to take it, Highness,” the Aspect said, “that you are convinced the Fief Lord is the author of the letters?”

“Convinced? No. But it seems likely. The man may not be a fanatic like the fools Brother Vaelin dispatched in the Martishe but he does have a weakness for his god. Probably fretting over his place in the Eternal Fields now he’s passed his fiftieth year. In any case, whether he wrote the letters or not makes little difference, the problem lies in the mere fact of their existence. Once they came to light I had little choice but to act. At least this way the Fief Lord will feel a debt to my son when he ascends the throne.”

The King quickly downed the rest of his wine and rose from his desk. “Enough statecraft, I have other business with you brothers. Come.” He beckoned them into a smaller adjoining room no less ornately decorated, but in place of paintings or tapestries the walls were adorned with swords, a hundred or more gleaming blades. A few were of the Asraelin pattern but there were many others the style of which Vaelin had never seen. Great two handed broad swords nearly six feet in length. Sickle-like sabres with blades that curved almost in a semi-circle. Long needlelike rapiers with no edge and bowl shaped guards. Swords with blades fashioned of gold or silver despite the fact that such metals were too soft to ever make useful weapons.

“Pretty aren’t they?” the King commented. “Been collecting them for years. Some are gifts, some are the spoils of war, some I bought simply because I liked the look of them. Every so often I give one away,” he turned to Vaelin, smiling again, “to a young man like you, brother.”

Vaelin experienced a sudden resurgence of the unease that had gripped him during his first meeting with the King. The unsettling knowledge that he was a small part of a larger unseen design. The wrongness, what Nersus Sil Nin had called the blood-song, was singing faintly at the back of his mind. If he gives me a sword…

“I am a brother of the Sixth Order, Highness,” he said, trying to match the Aspect’s neutral tone. “Royal honours are not for one such as me.”

“Royal honours are precisely for one such as you, young hawk,” the King replied. “Sadly, I’m usually obliged to hand them out to the undeserving. Today will be a welcome change.” He gestured expansively at the collection of swords around them. “Choose.”

Vaelin turned to the Aspect seeking guidance.

Aspect Arlyn’s eyes had narrowed slightly but his expression was otherwise unchanged. He remained silent for a moment and when he spoke his tone was the same as before, void of both deference and defiance. “The King honours you, brother. In so doing he honours the Order. You will accept.”

“But can it be right, Aspect? Can a man be both a brother and a Sword of the Realm?”

“It has happened before. Many years ago.” The Aspect’s gaze shifted from the King to Vaelin and softened somewhat but his voice held no room for further discussion. “You will accept the King’s honour, brother Vaelin.”

I don’t want it! he thought fiercely. It’s payment, payment for a murder. This scheming old man wishes to bind me to him even more.

But he could see no escape. The Aspect had commanded him. The King had honoured him. He had to take the sword.

Swallowing a sigh of frustration he scanned the walls, eyes flicking from one blade to another. He toyed with the idea of choosing one of the golden blades, he could always sell it later, but decided a weapon of some practical use would be the wisest choice. He saw little point in taking an Asraelin sword, it could hardly be better than his own star-silver blade, and the more exotic weapons seemed too unwieldy to his eye. His gaze finally fell on a broad bladed short sword with a simple plain bronze guard and wooden hilt. He took it down from the wall and tried a few experimental swings, finding it well balanced with a comfortable weight. The edge was keen, the steel bright and unscarred.

“Volarian,” the King said. “Not very pretty but a solid weapon, useful in the press of battle when a man can’t raise his arm. A good choice.” He held out his hand and Vaelin passed him the sword. “Normally there would be a ceremony, lots of oaths and kneeling but I think we can dispense with that. Vaelin Al Sorna I name you Sword of the Realm. Do you pledge your sword in service to the Unified Realm?”

“I do, Highness.”

“Then use it well.” The King handed him the sword. “Now, as Sword of the Realm I must find you a commission. I name you commander of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment of Foot. Since the Aspect has been gracious enough to allow the use of the Order house to accommodate my regiment I think it only proper that the Order retain command of it. You will train the soldiers and command them in war, when the time comes.”

Vaelin looked to the Aspect for some reaction but saw nothing but the same rigid lack of expression.

“Forgive me Highness, but if the regiment is to come under Order control then Brother Makril would seem a better choice…”

“The famous denier hunter? Oh, I don’t think so. Could hardly give him a sword could I? Only one ennobled by the Crown can command a regiment of the Realm Guard. How long before they’re ready do you think?”

“Our losses in the Martishe were heavy, Highness. The men are weary and haven’t been paid for weeks.”

“Really?” The King looked at the Aspect with raised eyebrows.