“What will you do if you gain victory tomorrow?” I asked, aware I was slurring a little. “Will you return to your Realm? Do you think King Malcius will welcome you?”

He pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I think we both know there will be no victory for me here, whatever transpires tomorrow. Good night, my lord.”

I refilled my cup, listening to him climb the stairs and make his way to one of the bedrooms. I marvelled that he could sleep, knowing that without the wine’s assistance I was unlikely to find any rest this night. And yet I knew he would sleep soundly, untroubled by fearful nightmares, untroubled by guilt.

“Would you have hated him, Seliesen?” I asked aloud, hoping he was among the ghosts crowding this house. “I doubt it. Grist for another poem, no doubt. You always did relish their company, these sword swinging brutes, though you could never truly be one of them. Learn their tricks, learn to ride, learn to make pretty patterns with that sabre they gave you. But you never learned to fight, did you?” Tears were coming now. Here I was, a drunken scribbler weeping in a house of ghosts. “You never learned to fight, you bastard.”

Among the few attractions the Meldenean Islands have to offer the more educated visitor are the many impressive ruins to be found on the coastline of the larger isles. Although varying in scale and purpose they display a uniformity of design and articulation clearly indicative of construction by a single culture, an ancient race possessed of an aesthetic sophistication and elegance entirely absent from the archipelago’s modern inhabitants.

By far the most impressive surviving example of this once great architecture is the amphitheatre situated some two miles from the Meldenean capital. Carved from a depression in the red-veined yellow marble cliffs on the island’s southern shore, the amphitheatre has proven immune to the depredations wrought by successive generations of islanders who display scant reluctance in cannibalising other sites for building materials. A great bowl of terraced seating looking down upon a wide oval stage where, no doubt, great oratory, poetry and drama had once been the delight of a more enlightened audience, the amphitheatre was now the perfect venue for modern islanders to publicly execute miscreants or watch men fight to the death.

We had been roused by the Shield’s crew just as dawn broke over the city. They explained it would be best if we were conveyed to the venue before the populace woke to throng the streets and bay their hatred at the City Burner’s spawn.

As I had come to expect, Al Sorna showed no outward concern as we waited for the sun to climb to its midway place in the sky. He sat in the lowermost tier, sword resting beside him as he gazed out to sea. A stiff breeze was blowing from the south although the absence of cloud foretold a day free of rain. I wondered if Al Sorna felt it was a good day to meet his death.

The Lady Emeren arrived an hour short of noon, accompanied by two more of the Shield’s crewmen, dressed simply as always in a plain white and black robe, her fine features unadorned by paint or jewellery. But for the sapphire ring on her finger there was no outward sign of her rank, however, her innate dignity and poise were unchanged. I rose to greet her as she strode into the oval arena, bowing formally. “My Lady Emeren.”

“Lord Verniers.” Her voice had lost none of the rich timbre I remembered, coloured by a faint trace of the peculiar lilting accent unique to those raised in the Emperor’s court. I was struck once again by her beauty, the flawless skin, the full lips and bright green eyes. She had long been regarded as the perfection of Alpiran womanhood, as dutiful as she was comely, daughter of a noble blood-line and favoured by the Emperor since girlhood, educated at court alongside his own sons, a daughter to him in all but name. When Seliesen was called to his destiny it was inevitable that they would marry. Who else was worthy of her after all?

“You are well?” I asked. “You have suffered no mistreatment, I trust.”

“My captors have been more than generous.” Her gaze shifted to the Hope Killer and I saw again the expression of cold, fathomless malice that marred her perfect features whenever she spoke of him. Al Sorna returned her gaze with a short incline of his head, his face showing only the mildest interest.

“There are no guards with you,” the Lady Emeren observed.

“The prisoner gave his word to the Emperor that he would meet the Shield’s challenge. Guards were not deemed necessary.”

“I see. My son is well?”

“Very. Happily at play last I saw him. I know he hungers for your return. As do we all.”

Her eyes flashed at me, burning with almost the same flame of hatred she showed to the Hope Killer, and I found I could not meet them. She always knew, I recalled. Why would she not hate me too?

“When I return to the Empire my son and I will continue to live in quiet seclusion,” the Lady Emeren told me. “I desire no return to court. Nor do I expect any thanks for finally securing justice for my husband.”

I sighed heavily. “So it’s true then? This circumstance is your doing.”

“The Meldeneans desire justice too. The Shield watched his parents and brothers burn to death before his eyes. His assistance required little persuasion. These Northmen have a rare gift for stoking hatred in others.”

“And do you really believe your hatred will die with him? What if it doesn’t? What comfort will you find then?”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Do not preach at me, scribe. You are a godless man, we both know it.”

“So it’s to the gods you look for comfort now? Begging gifts from heedless stone. Seliesen would have wept…”

Her sapphire ring left a cut on my cheek as she slapped me. I staggered a little. She was a strong woman and felt no need of restraint. “Do not speak my husband’s name!”

Many words came to me then as I stood clutching my bleeding face, many bile-filled, loathsome words sure to cut her to the core with lacerating truth. But meeting her blazing eyes I felt the words die in my breast, my anger shrivelling and flying away on the seaborne wind, replaced by a depth of pity and regret I knew had always lurked in my soul.

I gave her another formal bow. “I am sorry to have caused you any distress, lady.” I turned and walked to where the Hope Killer sat, placing myself next to him, two guilty men awaiting sentence.

“I can stitch that if you like,” Al Sorna offered as I held a lace kerchief to the cut on my cheek. “It’ll scar otherwise.”

I shook my head, watching the Lady Emeren take her place at the far end of the first tier, her gaze studiously avoiding mine. “I earned it.”

The Shield arrived shortly afterwards, leading a company of spear-bearing crewmen who quickly moved to take up positions around the arena. No doubt he was keen that his moment of revenge should proceed without any assistance from the crowd now beginning to throng the seats. Their mood was tense rather than celebratory, many pairs of eyes bore into Al Sorna’s back but there were no curses or catcalls, making me wonder if the Shield had made efforts to ensure the event at least bore some semblance of civilisation.

What absurd comedy this is, I thought. To pardon a man for a crime he did commit so he can face retribution for one he had no part in.