“He could’ve made it out,” Barkus suggested, although his tone lacked conviction. “Got to a ship, maybe.”

Vaelin closed his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts, attempting to cast the blood-song forth as he had when he lost Dentos in the sandstorm. The note was even, unwavering, and found no answer. “He’s not there,” he whispered, hope surging in his breast. He had entertained a half-mad notion of waiting until darkness then finding a way over the walls to search for Frentis amidst the aftermath of the battle, although he was fully aware the most likely outcome would be a swift death. But if he’s not here, then where? He wouldn’t have deserted the prince.

“Outriders,” Caenis said, pointing to the plain before the city where a body of horsemen was raising a thick cloud of dust as they galloped towards their position.

“Can’t be more than a dozen.” Barkus unhitched his axe from his saddle and unfastened the leather cover on the blades. “A little recompense, for the prince and our brother.”

“Leave it.” Vaelin pulled on Spit’s reins, turning him away from the city. “Let’s go.”

Another month passed as they waited for the storm. He trained the men hard, drilling them until they sagged with exhaustion, ensuring each man knew his place on the walls and was fit and skilful enough to at least survive the first assault when it came. He sensed their fear and growing resentment but had no answer to it but more training and sterner discipline. To his surprise, their mingled fear and respect held true and there were no desertions, even after Barkus returned from a reconnaissance to Marbellis with news that it too had fallen.

“Place is near a ruin,” the big brother related, swinging down from his horse. “Walls breached in six places, half the houses wrecked by fire and I lost count of the Alpirans camped outside.”

“Prisoners?” Vaelin asked.

His brother’s usually cheerful visage was entirely grim. “There were spikes on the walls, lots of spikes, each one topped with a head. If they spared anyone, I didn’t see them.”

The Battle Lord… Alucius… Master Sollis…

“What fools we were to let the old bastard send us here,” Barkus was saying.

“Get some rest brother,” Vaelin told him.

At night Sherin would come to him and they would make love, finding blessed relief in intimacy, lying coiled together in the dark afterwards. Sometimes she would cry small, jerking sobs she tried to hide. “Don’t,” he would whisper. “All be over soon.”

After a while her sobs would subside and she would cling to him, lips covering his face with a desperate urgency. She, like every other soul in the city, knew what was coming. The Alpirans would break over the walls like a wave and he and every other Realm subject in arms would die here.

“We can go,” she said one night, imploring. “There are still ships in the harbour. We can just sail away.”

His hand traced over her smooth brow, the fine curve of her cheek and the elegant line of her chin. It was wonderful to touch her face, to feel her shiver at his touch before a warm flush crept over her skin. “Remember my promise, my love,” he said, thumbing a tear from her eye.

He was touring the walls the next morning when Caenis came with word of Realm vessels approaching the harbour. “How many?”

“Near forty.” His brother appeared unsurprised by the turn of events. The idea that the king would leave them to wither unsupported seemed not to have occurred to him at all. “We’re to be reinforced.”

“There has been talk,” Caenis said as they waited on the quayside watching the first ship steer its way past the mole and into the harbour. His tone was uncomfortable but determined. “About Sister Sherin.”

Vaelin shrugged. “Well there might. We’ve hardly been discrete.” He glanced at Caenis, regretting his levity in the face of his brother’s discomfort. “I love her, brother.”

Caenis avoided his gaze, his tone heavy. “According to the tenets of the Faith you aren’t my brother now.”

“Excellent. Feel free to depose me. I’ll happily hand this city over to you…”

“Your position as Lord Marshal of the Regiment and commander of this garrison was given you by the King, not the Order. I have no power to depose you. All I can do is report your… transgression to the Aspect for judgement.”

“If I live to be judged.”

Caenis gestured at the approaching ship. “We’re being reinforced. The King has not failed us. I think we’ll all live a while yet.”

In the distance Vaelin could see the rest of the fleet bobbing sluggishly on the swell. Why do they linger out there? he wondered, a realisation dawning as the ship drew nearer and he saw how high it sat in the water. This vessel carried no reinforcements.

Sailors threw ropes to soldiers on the quay as the ship tied up to the dock, a gangplank quickly heaved over the railing. He had expected some senior Realm Guard Marshal to descend and was surprised by the appearance of a figure clad in the expensive garb of Realm nobility making an uncertain passage from ship to shore. It took a moment before Vaelin pulled the man’s name from his memory, Kelden Al Telnar, one time Minister of Royal Works. The man following Al Telnar was more to Vaelin’s expectation, tall and simply dressed in a robe of blue and white with a neatly trimmed beard and mahogany dark skin.

“Lord Vaelin,” Al Telnar bowed as Vaelin came forward to greet them.

“My Lord.”

“May I present Lord Merulin Nester Velsus, Grand Prosecutor of the Alpiran Empire currently acting as Ambassador to the Court of King Janus.”

Vaelin gave the tall man a bow. “Prosecutor, eh?”

“A poor translation,” Merulin Nester Velsus replied in near-perfect Realm tongue, his tone cool and his eyes tracking over Vaelin with predatory scrutiny. “More accurately, I am the Instrument of the Emperor’s Justice.”

Vaelin wasn’t sure why he started laughing, but it took a long time to subside. Eventually he sobered and turned to Al Telnar. “I take it you have a Royal order for me?”

“These orders are clear to you, my lord?” Al Telnar was nervous, a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his hands clasped tightly together on the table before him. But his clear satisfaction at being involved in a moment of such importance appeared to override any trepidation he might have harboured about delivering these orders to such a famously dangerous man.

Vaelin nodded. “Quite clear.” They were in the council chamber at the merchant’s guild, the tall Alpiran Grand Prosecutor the only other occupant. The lack of witnesses had peeved Al Telnar, making him enquire as to the whereabouts of a scribe to record the proceedings. Vaelin hadn’t bothered to answer.

“I have the King’s word in writing,” Al Telnar produced a leather satchel and extracted a sheaf of papers bearing the royal seal. “If you would care to…”

Vaelin shook his head. “I hear the King is unwell. Did he give you these orders himself?”

“Well, no. Princess Lyrna has been appointed Chamberlain, until such time as the King recovers of course.”

“But his illness doesn’t prevent him issuing orders?”

“Princess Lyrna struck me as a very conscientious and dutiful daughter,” Lord Velsus put in. “If it is any consolation, I discerned a considerable reluctance in her bearing when she reported her father’s word.”

Vaelin found himself unable to suppress a chuckle. “Ever played Keschet, my lord?”

Velsus narrowed his eyes, his lips curling in anger and he leaned across the table. “I do not understand your meaning, you ignorant savage. Nor do I care to. Your king has given his word, will you abide by it or not?”