“Do you really think Lord Velsus will share your gratitude, Governor?” Vaelin asked him.
The Governor sighed. “Perhaps not.” He took a leather purse from his belt and handed it to Shoala. “For her, when she wakes. With my thanks.”
The woman nodded, cast a final hateful glare at Vaelin then a tearful glance at the city, before turning and striding up the gangplank.
Vaelin reached out to trace his fingers through Sherin’s hair, trying to burn the image of her sleeping face into his memory. “Take care of her,” he told Ahm Lin.
Ahm Lin smiled. “My song would have it no other way.” He turned to go then hesitated. “My song holds no note of farewell, brother. I can’t help but think that one day we’ll sing together again.”
Vaelin nodded, stepping back as Ahm Lin carried Sherin onto the ship. He stood with the Governor as the ship pulled away from the dock, riding the tide to the harbour mouth, sails unfurling to catch the northerly winds, taking her away. He waited and watched until the sail was a faint smudge on the horizon, until it had vanished completely and there was only the sea and the wind.
He unbuckled his sword and held it out to Aruan. “Governor, the city is yours. I am commanded to wait for Lord Velsus beyond the walls.”
Aruan looked at the sword but made no move to take it. “I will speak for you, I have some influence at the Emperor’s court. He is famed for his mercy…” He faltered and stopped, perhaps hearing the emptiness of his words. After a moment he spoke again, “Thank you for my daughter’s life, my lord.”
“Take it,” Vaelin insisted, again holding out the sword. “I’d rather you than Lord Velsus.”
“As you wish.” The Governor took the sword in his plump hands. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Actually, about my dog…”
Verniers’ Account
“And?”
Al Sorna had fallen to silence after relating his final words to the Governor. “And what?” he enquired.
I bit down my exasperation. It was becoming increasingly apparent that the Northman took no small pleasure from vexing me. “And what followed?”
“You know what followed. I waited outside the walls, in the morning Lord Velsus came with a troop of Imperial Guards to take me into custody. Prince Malcius was duly delivered to the Realm unharmed. Janus died shortly after. Your history was fulsome in its description of my trial. What else can I tell you?”
I realised he was right, insofar as recorded history could relate he had told me the entirety of his tale, providing a great deal of previously unknown information and clarification on the origins of the war and the nature of the Realm that had spawned it. But I found myself possessed of a conviction that there was more, an unshakeable sense that his tale was incomplete. I recalled moments when his voice had faltered, only slightly but enough to assure me he had been holding back, perhaps concealing truths he had no desire to reveal. Looking at the wealth of words adorning the sheets that now covered the deck around my bedroll my mood darkened as I considered the work involved in verifying this narrative, the extensive research that would be needed to corroborate such a story. Where is the truth amongst all this? I wondered.
“So,” I said, gathering my papers, taking care to keep them in order. “This is the answer to the war? Simply the folly of a desperate old man?”
Al Sorna had settled onto his bedroll, hands clasped behind his head, eyes cast to the ceiling, his expression sombre and distant. He yawned. “That’s all I can tell you, my lord. Now, if you’ll allow me some rest, I have to face certain death tomorrow and would prefer to meet it fully refreshed.”
I sifted through the pages, my quill picking out those passages where I suspected he had been less than forthcoming. To my dismay I found there were more than I would have liked, even a few contradictions. "You said you never met her again,” I said. “Yet you say Princess Lyrna was present at the Summertide Fair where Janus embroiled you in his war mongering scheme.”
He sighed, not turning. “We exchanged a cursory greeting only. I didn’t think it worth mentioning.”
A dim memory came to me, a fragment from my own researches undertaken whilst preparing my history of the war. “What about the mason?”
It was only the briefest hesitation but it told me a great deal. “Mason?”
“The mason at Linesh you befriended. His house was set alight because of it. It was a well known story when I researched your occupation of the city. Yet you make no mention of him.”
He rolled onto his back and shrugged. “Hardly a friendship. I wanted him to carve a statue of Janus for the town square. Something to confirm his ownership of the city. Needless to say the mason refused. Didn’t stop someone burning his house down though. I believe he and his wife left the city when the war ended, with good reason it seems.”
“And the sister of your faith who stopped the red plague from ravaging the city,” I pressed, angrier now. “What of her? The city folk I interviewed told many tales of her kindness and her closeness to you. Some even thought you were lovers.”
He shook his head wearily. “That is absurd. As for what became of her, I assumed she returned to the Realm with the army.”
He was lying, I was sure of it. “Why relate this tale if you have no intention of telling me all of it?” I demanded. “Do you seek to make me a fool, Hope Killer?”
Al Sorna grunted a laugh. “A fool is any man who doesn’t think he’s a fool. Let me sleep, my lord.”
In the twenty years since its destruction the Meldeneans had made strenuous efforts to rebuild their capital on a grander and more ornate scale, perhaps seeking defiance in architectural achievement. The city clustered around the wide natural harbour on the southern shore of Ildera, the largest island in the archipelago, a vista of gleaming marble walls and red tiled rooftops interspersed with tall columns honouring the islanders’ myriad sea gods. I had read how Al Sorna’s equally formidable father had overseen the toppling of the columns when his army stormed ashore bringing fire and destruction. Survivors spoke of Realm Guard urinating on the fallen statues that sat atop the columns, drunk on blood and victory, chanting “A god is lie!” as the city burned around them.
If Al Sorna felt any remorse at the destruction his father had wrought he failed to show it, gazing at the fast approaching city with only the faintest interest, hateful sword in hand, ignored by the sailors as he rested against the rail. It was a bright, cloudless day and the ship ploughed easily through the still waters with sails furled, the sailors hauling on their oars under the bosun’s harsh exhortations.
We exchanged no greeting when I joined him at the rail. My head still buzzed with questions but my heart was chilled by the certain knowledge that he would provide no answers. Whatever purpose he had pursued in telling me his tale was now fulfilled. He would tell me nothing more. I had lain awake most of the night, my mind poring over his story, seeking answers and finding only more questions. I wondered if his intention had been to take some cruel revenge for the harsh condemnation of him and his people that had coloured nearly every line of my history of the war, but, despite the fact that I could never feel any warmth for him, I knew he was not truly vindictive. A deadly enemy certainly, but rarely a vengeful one.
“Can you still use that?” I asked eventually, tiring of the silence.
He glanced at the sword in his hand. “We’ll soon see.”
“Apparently, The Shield is insisting on a fair contest. I expect they’ll give you a few days to practice. So many years of inactivity would hardly make you the most fearsome opponent.”
His black eyes played over my face, faintly amused. “What makes you think I’ve been inactive?”
I shrugged. “What is there to do in a cell for five years?”
He turned back to the city, his reply a vague whisper nearly lost to the wind. “Sing.”
All activity on the dockside gradually died away as we tied up to the quay. Every stevedore, fisherman, sailor, fishwife and whore stopped what they were doing and turned to regard the son of the City Burner. The silence was instantly thick and oppressive, even the constant keening of the innumerable gulls seemed to fade in an atmosphere now heavy with an unspoken, universal hatred. Only one figure amongst the throng seemed immune to the mood, a tall man standing arms wide in welcome at the foot of the gangplank, perfect teeth gleaming in a broad smile. “Welcome, friends, welcome!” he called in rich, deep baritone.
I took in his full stature as I descended to the quay, noting the expensive blue silk shirt that clad his broad, lean torso and the gold-hilted sabre at his belt. His hair, long and honey-blond, trailed in the wind like a lion’s mane. He was, quite simply, the most handsome man I had ever seen. Unlike Al Sorna, his appearance was entirely in keeping with his legend and I knew his name before he told me, Atheran Ell-Nestra, Shield of the Isles, the man the Hope Killer had come to fight.
“Lord Verniers is it not?” he greeted me, his hand engulfing my own. “An honour, sir. Your histories have pride of place on my shelves.”
“Thank you.” I turned as Al Sorna made his way down the gangplank. “This…”
