“This magistrate and his wealthy friends, you have their names?”

“What would you do if I gave them to you?”

Vaelin fixed him with a cold stare. “Kill them all. That is your intention isn’t it? To set me on this course for vengeance. Well, you’ll get it. Just give me the names.”

“You misunderstand me Vaelin. I have no wish for vengeance. In any case you couldn’t kill them all. Wealthy men from noble families have many protectors, many guards. You might kill one, but not all. And Illiah would still be waiting her fate in the Blackhold once you have been cut down.”

“Then why tell me this when I can do nothing to set it right?”

“You can speak for her. Your word will carry much weight. If you went to your Aspect and explained…”

“She’s a Denier. They won’t help her unless she renounces her heresy.”

“She won’t do that. Her soul is bound to her beliefs more closely than you could imagine. I doubt she could renounce them even if she wished to. I know your Aspect to be a compassionate man Vaelin, he will speak for her.”

“Even if he does the Blackhold is no longer guarded by the Sixth Order since the last conclave. It falls under the control of the Fourth. I have met Aspect Tendris and he will not help an unrepentant Denier.” Vaelin turned back to the river, frustration raging in his chest, Urlian’s pale face asking for his wife over and over again in his head.

“So there’s nothing you can do?” Erlin asked. He sounded resigned and Vaelin knew his visit and been a desperate act, undertaken at considerable risk.

“You put great trust in me coming here,” Vaelin said. “Thank you.”

“I’ve lived long enough to judge a man’s heart.” He stepped back from the river, offering Vaelin his hand. “I’m sorry to have burdened you with this. I’ll leave you in peace now.”

“As I grow older I’m learning that the truth is never a burden. It’s a gift.” Vaelin shook his hand. “Tell me the names.”

“I won’t set you on a path to your own death.”

“You won’t. Trust me. I’ve thought of something I can do.”

Chapter 10

He chose the gate on the eastern wall, assuming it would be the least busy. Even given the lateness of the hour the main palace gate would be too well guarded, too many mouths to speak of how Vaelin Al Sorna had appeared demanding an audience with the King.

“Piss off boy,” the sergeant at the gate told him, not bothering to emerge from the shelter of the guard house. “Go sleep it off.”

Vaelin realised he must smell like an ale house. “My name is Brother Vaelin Al Sorna of the Sixth Order,” he said, forcing authority into his voice as if he had every right to be here. “I request an audience with King Janus.”

“Faith!” the sergeant sighed in exasperation. He came out to fix Vaelin with a fierce glare. “You know a man could find himself flogged for giving a false name to an officer of the King’s Guard?”

A younger guardsman appeared behind the sergeant, staring at Vaelin with a disconcertingly awed expression. “Uh, Sarge…”

“But it’s late and I’m in a good mood.” The sergeant was advancing on Vaelin with balled fists, his grizzled face tensed with impending violence. “So it’ll just be a beating before I send you on your way.”

“Sarge!” the younger man said urgently, catching hold of his arm. “It’s him.”

The sergeant's gaze swung to the younger man then back to Vaelin, looking him up and down. “You sure?”

“Was on duty at the Circle this morning wasn’t I? It’s really him.”

The sergeant’s fists uncurled but he didn’t appear any happier. “What’s your business with the King?”

“For him alone. He’ll see me if he’s told I’m here. And I’m sure he’ll be displeased if he hears I have been turned away.” An accomplished lie, he congratulated himself. In truth he had no certainty the king would see him at all.

The sergeant thought it over. His scars told of a lifetime of hard service and Vaelin realised he must resent any intrusion into what was no doubt a comfortable billet in which to await his pension. “My compliments and apologies to the Captain,” the sergeant told the younger guardsman. “Wake him and tell him about our visitor.”

They stood regarding each other in wary silence after the guardsman had scampered off, hastily unlocking a small door set into the huge oak wood gate and disappearing inside.

“Heard you killed five Denier assassins the night of the Aspect massacre,” the sergeant grunted eventually.

“It was fifty.”

It seemed an age before the door reopened and the young guardsman emerged followed by a trim young man, impeccably dressed in the uniform of a Captain in the King’s Horse Guard. He gave Vaelin a brief look of appraisal before offering his hand. “Brother Vaelin,” he said in a slight Renfaelin accent. “Captain Nirka Smolen, at your service.”

“Apologies for waking you Captain,” Vaelin said, slightly distracted by the neatness of the young man’s attire. Everything from the shine of his boots to the precise trim of his moustache spoke of a remarkable attention to detail. He certainly didn’t appear to be a man just woken from his bed.

“Not at all.” Captain Smolen, gestured at the open door. “Shall we?”

Vaelin’s boyhood memories of gleaming opulence were not matched by the interior of the eastern wing of the palace. After crossing a small courtyard he was led into a warren of corridors crammed with a variety of dust covered chests and cloth wrapped paintings.

“This wing is used mostly for storage,” Captain Smolen explained seeing his bemused expression. “The King receives many gifts.”

He followed the captain through a series of corridors and chambers until they came to a large room with a chequered floor and several grand paintings on the wall. He found his attention immediately drawn to the paintings, each was at least seven feet across and depicted a battle. The setting changed with each painting but the same figure was at the centre of every one; a handsome, flame haired man astride a white charger, sword held high above his head. King Janus. Though Vaelin’s memory of the king was dim he didn’t remember his jaw being quite so square or his shoulders quite so broad.

“The six battles that united the Realm,” Captain Smolen said. “Painted by Master Benril Lenial. It took him over three years.”

Vaelin remembered Master Benril’s drawings in Aspect Elera’s rooms, the fine detail with which each was rendered, the way the exposed viscera seemed to come out of the parchment. He saw none of the same clarity now. The colours were bright but not vibrant, the battling warriors clearly depicted but stilted somehow, not as if they were fighting at all, simply standing in a pose.

“Not his best is it?” Captain Smolen commented. “He was commanded to it, you see. I suspect he had little love for his subject. Have you ever seen his fresco in the Great Library commemorating the victims of the Red Hand? It’s quite breath-taking.”

“I’ve never seen the Great Library,” Vaelin replied, thinking Captain Smolen would probably find much in common with Caenis.

“You should, it’s a credit to the Realm. I’ll need your weapons.”

Vaelin unclipped his cloak with the four throwing knives secured within its folds, unbuckled his sword, unhooked his hunting knife from his belt and removed the narrow bladed dagger from his left boot.

“Nice,” Captain Smolen admired the dagger. “Alpiran?”