She gave an uncertain glance at the top of the scaffolding. “Well, he hasn’t paid me for weeks.”
“Then it’s decided.” He shooed them away, watching them walk along Gate Lane, the blood-song sounding the same curious lilting note when Alornis took Reva’s hand, chatting away at her as if they had known each other since girlhood. He saw Reva flinch, but was surprised when she didn’t snatch her hand away.
“Chisel!” came an impatient shout from above.
Vaelin gathered all the chisels he could find into a leather toolbag and clambered up the successive ladders to the top of the scaffold. The old man was crouched against the plinth’s summit, hands roving over the marble surface. He didn’t turn when Vaelin dumped the tool bag at his side.
“My sister says you haven’t paid her,” he said.
“Your sister would pay to help me, brother.” Master Benril Lenial turned to regard him with the same deeply furrowed brow. “Or is it just my lord these days?”
“I’m no longer of the Sixth Order, if that’s your meaning.”
Master Benril grunted and turned back to the plinth.
“What will it be?” Vaelin asked.
“The Realm’s monument to the greatness of King Janus.” The old man’s tone said much about his enthusiasm for this project.
“A royal commission then.”
“I do this and he promises to leave me alone for two years so I can paint. It’s the only true art. This.” He smacked a palm against the marble. “This is mere masonry.”
“I knew a mason once. I would say he was as much an artist as any man could be.”
“And I would say you should stick to swinging your sword about.” He glanced back again. “Where is it anyway?”
“I left it at home wrapped in canvas, as it has been since I returned to the Realm.”
“So you’ve given up more than just the Faith, eh?”
“I’ve gained more than I’ve given up.”
Master Benril shifted about to face him, showing no signs of stiffness in his aged limbs. “What do you want?”
“My sister, I need to take her away from here. I want you to tell her to let me.”
Benril raised his extensive eyebrows. “You feel my word carries that much weight with her?”
“I know it. I also know there is no life for her here, not as my father’s daughter, or as your pupil.”
“Your sister’s gift is a great and wonderful thing. To prevent her from nurturing it would be a crime.”
“She can nurture it in safety, far from here.”
Benril ran a hand through the long grey mass of his beard. “I’ll agree not to speak against her leaving, but that’s all.”
Vaelin inclined his head. “My thanks, Master.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” The old man rose and went to the ladder. “I have a condition.”
? ? ?
“Hold still will you!”
Vaelin’s back ached and a cramp was starting to build in his neck. Benril had made him hold several poses now, each more theatrical than the last. This latest had him standing, back straight and head raised, staring off into the distance, holding a mop as if it were a sword. The old man had started and discarded numerous sketches already, the chalk never ceasing in his hand, his eyes flicking constantly between Vaelin and the dark brown parchment on his easel.
“You don’t hold a sword like this,” Vaelin advised.
“It’s called artistic licence,” Benril snapped back. “Lower your right arm.”
It was another half hour before five troopers of the King’s Mounted Guard trotted into the cross-roads, a riderless horse in tow. The captain in charge dismounted and strode forward to offer a smart salute, his polished breastplate providing Vaelin with a fine reflection of his ridiculous pose. “Lord Vaelin, may I say this is an honour?”
“I was expecting Captain Smolen,” Vaelin said.
The captain hesitated. “Lord Marshal Al Smolen is in the North, my lord.” He straightened with pride. “I bring warm greetings from His Highness . . .”
“All right.” Vaelin abandoned the pose and reached for his cloak. “Master Benril, it appears I’m needed at the palace. We’ll have to finish this another time.”
“Tell the King I need more coin for the blacksmith,” Benril said to the captain. “If he wants his monument before winter sets in that is.”
The captain stiffened. “I am not a messenger, brother.”
“I’ll tell him,” Vaelin assured Benril, pulling on his cloak. He paused to look at the master’s sketch, frowning in puzzlement. “I’m not that tall.”
“On the contrary, my lord.” Benril leaned closer to the parchment to add some shading to Vaelin’s cheekbones. “I think you stand very tall indeed.”
? ? ?
King Malcius Al Nieren wore a more ornate crown than the plain band favoured by his father, a ring of gold inlaid with an intricate floral design and featuring a centre-piece of four different gemstones, each presumably representing the four fiefs of the Realm. The eyes beneath the crown held a wariness not matched by the warm smile he offered Vaelin as he rose from one knee before the throne.
“Record,” the King intoned, making the three scribes positioned to the left of the throne dip their pens in readiness. “King Malcius Al Nieren welcomes his most loyal and honoured servant Lord Marshal Vaelin Al Sorna back to the Unified Realm. Be it known that all honours and titles previously his are restored.”
He came forward, arms wide, gripping Vaelin by the shoulders. Malcius had always struck Vaelin as a man of considerable vigour, a seasoned warrior possessed of a strong arm and a keen mind. The man who confronted him now was thinner, his complexion sallow beneath a dusting of powder, the hands on his shoulders trembling a little.
“By the Faith it’s good to see you, Vaelin!” the King said.
“And you, Highness.” He glanced around as the King’s hands remained on his shoulders. There were numerous courtiers in attendance, it seemed the King had delayed the royal procession to the fair to honour his unexpected guest. To the right of the throne sat a young woman, hands clasped in her lap, a crown smaller but otherwise identical to the King’s on her head. She was handsome and slender, with a keen intelligence shining in her eyes, which were, like her husband’s, also wary.
“Rest assured,” the King said, dragging Vaelin’s attention away from the queen. “This Realm is fully aware of the debt it owes you.” His hands clutched Vaelin even tighter.
“Thank you, Highness.” He lowered his voice. “I . . . wondered if I may raise a small matter with you, regarding my father’s estate.”
“Of course, of course!” The King finally released him, drawing back. “But first, I must present you to my queen. She has been looking forward to meeting you since word reached us of your return.”
The queen rose as Vaelin went to one knee before her.
“Lord Vaelin,” the King said. “I present Queen Ordella Al Nieren. Please pledge your loyalty to her as you would me.”
Vaelin glanced up at him, finding his smile had faded somewhat. “Merely a formality,” Malcius said. “Required of all Swords of the Realm these past four years.”
Vaelin turned back to the queen, head lowered. “I, Lord Vaelin Al Sorna, hereby pledge my loyal service to Queen Ordella Al Nieren of the Unified Realm.”
“I thank you, my lord,” the queen said. She had a cultured voice with the soft vowels of southern Asrael, but there was something of an edge to it as she continued. “Do you pledge to follow my commands as you would your King?”
“I do, my Queen.”
“Do you pledge to protect me and my children as you would your King? To lay down your life in our defence should it be necessary? And to do so regardless of what lies or deceits are voiced against us?”
Vaelin became aware of how silent the court had become, feeling the weight of so many eyes on his kneeling form. This is not for me, he decided. This is for them. “I do, my Queen.”
“You honour me, my lord.” She held out her hand, which Vaelin duly kissed, finding her skin icy on his lips.
“Excellent!” Malcius clapped his hands together. “My love, be so good as to proceed to the fair with the court. I shall be along directly, once Lord Vaelin and I have concluded our business.”
Alone with Vaelin save for two guards at the door, Malcius took off his crown, hanging it on the arm of his throne with a weary sigh. “Sorry about all that,” he said. “A necessary piece of theatre, I’m afraid.”
“I meant what I said, Highness.”
“I’m sure you did. If only every Sword of the Realm were so sincere in their oaths, this would be a much easier land to govern.” He sat in his throne, crouching forward, elbows resting on his knees, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with tired eyes. “Got old, didn’t I?”
“We all did, Highness.”
“Not you, you barely look a day older. I was expecting some wizened creature from the depths of the Emperor’s dungeon. But here you are, looking like you could take on every knight at the fair with barely a laboured breath.”