The hulking figure on the black charger hitched his mace to his saddle and trotted over to Vaelin, pushing his visor back to reveal a broad weathered face distinguished by a twice broken nose and eyes deeply lined with age.

Vaelin bowed formally. “Fief Lord Theros.”

“Lord Vaelin.” The Fief Lord of Renfael glanced round at the carnage and barked a laugh. “Bet you’ve never been so glad to see a Renfaelin, eh boy?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

A tall young knight reined in beside the Fief Lord, his handsome face smeared with sweat and blood, dark blue eyes regarding Vaelin with clear but unspoken malevolence.

“Lord Darnel,” Vaelin greeted him. “My thanks, and the thanks of my men, to you and your father.”

“Still alive then, Sorna?” the young knight replied. “At least the King will be pleased.”

“Still your tongue boy!” snapped Lord Theros. “My apologies, Lord Vaelin. The boy was ever spoiled. I blame his mother, meself. Three sons she bore me and this is the only one not still-born, Faith help me.”

Vaelin saw how the young knight’s hands twitched on the hilt of his longsword and the red flush of fury that coloured his cheeks. Another son who hates his father, he observed. A common ailment.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” He bowed again. “I must see to my men.”

Striding back towards the beach, stepping over the dead and the dying as the morning sun rose on the field of blood, he reached again for the bluestone, lifting it to let the rising sunlight play on the surface, thinking about the day the king had pressed it upon him, the day Lord Darnel came to hate him, the day Princess Lyrna had cried.

The day the blood-song fell silent.

“Bluestone, spices and silk,” he said softly.

Chapter 2

The inclusion of Renfaelin knightly contests in the Summertide Fair was a relatively recent innovation but had quickly become hugely popular with the people. The crowd was roaring their appreciation for a particularly spectacular joust as Vaelin made his way towards the royal pavilion, his hood pulled over his face to spare himself the burden of recognition. On the field a knight sailed from his saddle amidst a cloud of splinters, his opponent tossing his shattered lance to the crowd.

“That’s one snotty bastard won’t be getting up again!” a florid faced man commented making Vaelin wonder if it was the spectacle of combat they appreciated or the chance to witness the maiming of rich folk.

The guards at the pavilion entrance favoured him with a deeper bow than his rank required and glanced only briefly at the King’s warrant he proffered, pulling the flap aside and bidding him entry with barely a pause. He was only two days back from the north but the legend of his supposedly great victory over the Lonak was already widespread.

After being relieved of his weapons he was led to the royal box where he was unsurprised to find Princess Lyrna, alone. “Brother,” she greeted him with a smile, holding her hand out for him to kiss. He was momentarily disconcerted, this was something she hadn’t done before, a sign of favour rarely bestowed, and made in front of the assembled population of the capital. Nevertheless he went to one knee and pressed his lips against her knuckles. Her flesh was warmer than he expected and he angered himself by enjoying the sensation.

“Highness,” he said straightening, attempting a neutral tone and not quite managing it. “I was summoned to your father’s presence…”

She waved a hand. “He’ll be along. It seems he mislaid his favourite cloak. Never ventures outdoors without it these days.” She gestured to the seat next to her own. “Will you sit?”

He sat, distracting himself with the knight’s contest. Two groups were assembling at opposite ends of the field, about thirty in each, one under a red and white cheque banner with an eagle motif, the other under a flag displaying a red fox on a green background.

“The melee is the climax of the Renfaelin tourney,” the princess explained. “The red fox is the banner of Baron Hughlin Banders, that’s him in the rusty armour, once chief retainer to Fief Lord Theros. The eagle belongs to Lord Darnel, the Fief-Lord’s heir. Apparently the melee will settle a long-standing grievance between the two.” She picked up a white silk scarf from a nearby table. “I have been begged to give this to whichever oaf I think more violent than the others. Apparently the sight of large men in metal suits beating each other senseless is supposed to make my womanly heart swell.”

“A singular misjudgement, Highness.”

She turned to him and grinned. “Not one you are likely to make, brother.”

“I would hope not.” He watched the two sides line out, exchange salutes then charge towards each other at full gallop, swords and maces whirling. They met in such a crash of metal and horseflesh that both Vaelin and the Princess winced. The subsequent fight was a confused morass of tumbling knights and clashing weapons. Vaelin knew the knights were only supposed to strike with the flat of the blade but most appeared to be ignoring this rule and he saw at least three steel-clad figures lying immobile amidst the chaos.

“So this is battle,” Lyrna commented.

“Of a sort.”

“So what do you make of him? The Fief Lord’s heir.”

Vaelin watched Lord Darnel smash his sword hilt into an opponent’s helmet, the man slipping to the churned earth, blood spouting from his visor. “He fights well, Highness.”

“Though not as well as you, I’m sure. And he has none of your insight, or integrity. Women will bed him for the influence and wealth he holds, not for love. Men will follow him for pay or duty, not devotion.” She paused, her expression one of faint irritation. “And my father thinks he will make me a fine husband.”

“I’m sure your father wants the best…”

“My father wants me to breed. He wants the palace filled with the squalling of Al Neiren brats, all of them sharing blood with the Renfaelin Fief-Lord. The final seal on his alliance. All I have done in service to this Realm and my father still sees me as no more than a brood-sow.”

“The Catechism of Joining is clear, Highness. No-one, man or woman, can be forced to marry against their will.”

“My will.” She laughed bitterly. “With every year that passes without a marriage my will erodes further. You have your sword and your knives and your bow. My only weapons are my wits, my face and the promise of power that lies in my womb.”

The openness of their conversation was disconcerting. Where was the tension, the knowledge of shared guilt? Don’t forget, he warned himself. Do not forget what she is. What we did. He noted the way her eyes tracked Lord Darnel in the melee, gauging, assessing, seeing how she barely concealed the sneer of distaste that curled her lips. “Highness,” he said. “I doubt you engineered this encounter to ask my opinion of a man you have no intention of ever marrying. Do you have another theory for me, perhaps?”

“If you mean the Aspect massacre I’m afraid my opinion is unchanged. Although, I have uncovered another factor. Tell me, have you heard of the Seventh Order?”

She was watching his face closely and he knew she would see a lie. “It’s a story.” He shrugged. “A legend really. Once there was an order of the Faith devoted to study of the Dark.”

“You give it no credence then?”

“I leave history to Brother Caenis.”

“The Dark,” the princess tasted the word softly. “A fascinating subject. All superstition of course, but terribly persistent in the historical record. I went to the Great Library and requested all the books they have on the subject. It transpired I caused a bit of a stir since most of the older volumes were found to have been stolen.”

Vaelin thought of Brother Harlick tossing books into his fire in the fallen city. “And how does this legend connect to the Aspect massacre?”

“Stories are plentiful about the unfortunate event. I’ve made it my business to collect all I can, discreetly of course. The tales are mostly nonsense, exaggerations that grow with every telling, especially where you’re concerned, brother. Did you know you killed ten assassins single-handed, each of them armed with magic blades that drank the blood of the fallen?”

“I can’t say I recall that, Highness.”

“I doubted you would. Nonsense these tales may be, but they all share a theme, an element of the Dark colours each one, and the more fanciful include references to the Seventh Order.”

For all his wariness he couldn’t deny the sharpness of her mind. What he had previously taken for low cunning was but a facet of a considerable intellect. Many times over the past three years he had pondered the meaning of Harlick’s confession in the fallen city, trying to draw together the different strands of knowledge. But nothing gelled; the Aspects’ apparent betrayal of the Faithful, One Eye’s power, the familiar voice of whatever had lived behind the eyes of Hentes Mustor. Try as he might he could see no link. There was a continual sense of something hovering out of reach, a profound conclusion even the blood-song couldn’t divine. But can she? And if she can, could she be trusted with the knowledge? The idea of trusting her was absurd, of course. But even the untrustworthy could be useful.