“It’s the mystery of course. The enigma. Why would the assassins attack the Aspects on that particular night, a night when novice brothers from the Sixth Order are present in three of the Order Houses? It seems a singularly poor strategy.”

Despite himself his interest was piqued. She has something to share. Why? What advantage does she gain by this? “And what conclusions have you drawn, Highness?”

“There’s an Alpiran game called Keschet, which means cunning in our language. It’s highly complex, twenty-five different pieces played on a board of one hundred squares. The Alpirans have a great love of strategy, in business and in war. Something I hope my father remembers in times to come.”

“Highness?”

She waved a hand. “No matter. Games of Keschet can last for days and wise men have been known to devote their whole lives to mastering its intricacies.”

“A task I’m sure you’ve already accomplished, Highness.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t so hard, it’s all in the opening. There are only about two hundred variations, the most successful being the Liar’s Attack, a series of moves designed to appear essentially defensive but which in fact conceal an offensive sequence bringing victory in only ten moves, if done right. The success of the attack is dependent on fixing the opponent’s attention on a separate overt move in another region of the board. The key is in the narrow focus of the hidden offensive, it has but one objective, to remove the Scholar, not the most powerful piece on the board but crucial to a successful defence. The opponent, however, has been convinced that he’s facing a varied attack on a broad front.”

“Attacking all the Aspects was a diversion,” he said. “They only intended to kill one of them.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps two. In fact if you apply the theory more widely it could be that you were the intended victim and the Aspects merely incidental.”

“Is that your conclusion?”

She shook her head. “All theories require an assumption, in this case I assume that whoever orchestrated this attack was seeking to damage the Orders and the Faith. Simply killing the Aspects would of course meet this end, but new Aspects can be appointed to replace them, like Aspect Tendris Al Forne, and it is not unreasonable to conclude that his ascension has driven a wedge between the Orders. Damage has been done.”

“You’re saying the whole attack was aimed at elevating Al Forne to Aspect of the Fourth Order?”

She raised her face to the sky, closing her eyes as the sun warmed her skin. “I am.”

“You speak dangerous words, Highness.”

She smiled, her eyes still closed. “Only to you, and I do wish you’d call me Lyrna.”

The promise of power wasn’t enough, he thought. So now she tempts me with knowledge. “What did Linden call you?”

There was only the smallest pause before she turned away from the sun to meet his gaze. “He called me Lyrna, when we were alone. We had been friends since childhood. He sent me many letters from the forest so I know how much he admired you. My heart ached to hear…”

“Love must risk all or perish.” He was aware that his voice was hard with anger and his face set in a fierce glower. He was also aware that she had stopped smiling. “Isn’t that what you told him?”

It was only for a moment, but he was sure something like regret passed across her face, and for the first time there was uncertainty in her voice. “Did he suffer?”

“The poison in his veins made him scream in agony and sweat blood. He said he loved you. He said he had gone to the Martishe to win your father’s approval so you could wed. Before I slit his throat he asked me to give you a letter. When we gave him to the fire I burnt it.”

She closed her eyes for a second, a picture of beauty and grief, but when she opened them again it was gone and there was no emotion in her answer: “I follow my father’s wishes in all things, brother. As do you.”

The truth of it lashed at him. They were complicit. Murder entangled them both. He may have resisted loosing the bowstring but he had placed Linden in the path of the fatal arrow, just as she had set him on the road to the Martishe. It occurred to him this may have been the King’s plan all along, sordid murder binding them together in guilt.

He knew now his enmity for her was a deceit, an attempt to avoid his own share of blame, but even so found himself holding to it. She is cold, she is scheming, she is untrustworthy. But more than that, he hated the lingering hold she had over him, her effortless ability to engage his interest.

There was the faintest glimmer of something behind her eyes then as he realised the intensity of the gaze he had turned on her. Fear, he decided. The only man who can make her afraid.

He bowed again, guilt mingling with satisfaction in his breast. “By your leave, Highness.”

Sister Gilma was plump and friendly with a quick smile and bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle continually with mirth. “In the name of the Faith, cheer up brother!” she had said when they first met, tweaking Vaelin’s chin with a mock punch. “You’d think the cares of the Realm were on your shoulders. Brother sour-face they call you.”

“Are you really sure you want a healer attached to the regiment?” Nortah had asked.

Sister Gilma laughed. “Oh I see I’m going to like you!” she said in her thick Nilsaelin brogue, giving Nortah a punch on the arm that was less playful.

Vaelin had concealed his disappointment that Aspect Elera hadn’t seen fit to appoint Sister Sherin in answer to his request, although he was hardly surprised. “Whatever you require will be provided, sister.”

“It better be.” She laughed. In the month since he noticed she tended to laugh when she was being serious, employing a humourless tone when indulging her weakness for gentle but effective mockery.

“Another two broken arms today,” she told him with a chuckle and wry shake of her head as he entered the large tent that served as her treatment room. Four men were lying abed, bandaged and sleeping. Another two were being tended by the assistants she had insisted on recruiting from the ranks. To Vaelin’s surprise she had chosen two of the pressed men from the dungeons, slight fellows with quick minds and careful hands who would probably have made poor soldiers in any case.

“Keep driving these men so hard and there’ll be few left to face a battle a month from now.” She was smiling her bright smile, blue eyes twinkling.

“Battle is a hard business, sister. Soft training will make for soft soldiers who will in turn become soft corpses.”

Her smile faded a little. “Battle is coming then? There will be a war?”

War. The question was on everyone’s lips. It had been four weeks since the King had summoned the Fief Lord of Cumbrael and no answer had come. The Realm Guard had been confined to barracks and leave cancelled. Rumours flew with alarming speed. Cumbraelins were massing on the border. Cumbraelin archers had been seen in the Urlish. Hidden Denier sects were plotting all manner of hideous Dark fuelled villainy. Everywhere the air was thick with expectation and uncertainty, making Vaelin drive the men as hard as he dared. If the storm broke they had to be ready.

“I know no more than you, sister,” he assured her. “Any more pox cases?”

“Not since my visit to the ladies’ encampment.”

An outbreak of pox amongst the men had been traced to a camp of enterprising whores recently established in the woods a scant two miles away. Fearing the Aspect’s reaction to the news of a nest of whores so close to the Order House he ordered Sergeant Krelnik to put together a squad of the more trustworthy men to evict the women and send them back to the city. However, the old soldier had surprised him by hesitating. “Are you sure about this, my lord?”