“For what? I am Lonak.” She turned to the Aspect. “I have some small healing skill. If I can be of any assistance…”

“We have a very capable physician, my lady,” the Aspect replied. “But I thank you for your concern. Now, we must repair to my chambers and allow these brothers to see to their comrades.”

He turned and made for the Keep followed by the Tower Lord but the others lingered a moment. Hera Drakil gave them all a long look, his eyes moving from Dentos slumped in Barkus’s arms to Caenis’s blood smeared nose and Nortah’s sagging form, his unreadable expression turning into recognisable disgust. “Il Lonakhim hearin mar durolin,” he said sadly and walked away.

The girl, Dahrena, seemed embarrassed by the words and gave them a brief glance of farewell before turning to follow.

“What did he say?” Vaelin asked, making her pause.

She hesitated and he wondered if she would plead ignorance of the Seordah language but he knew she had understood the words. “He said ‘The Lonak treat their dogs better.’”

“And do they?”

Her mouth tightened a little and he saw a frown of anger before she turned away. “I expect so.”

Nortah’s head lolled back and he grinned at Vaelin. “She’s pretty,” he said before finally passing out.

“So how does the Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches come to have a Lonak for a daughter?” Vaelin asked Caenis.

They were walking the wall, the post-midnight shift, one of the drawbacks of achieving four years in the Order was a regular stint at guard duty. The wall was sparsely manned tonight with so many boys in the infirmary or too badly injured to take their turn, Barkus among them. He had waited until they were back in their room before revealing a deep cut across his back.

“I think someone put a nail through their sword,” he groaned.

They put Nortah in bed and cleaned him up as best they could. Luckily his cuts didn’t seem serious enough to warrant stitches and they decided the best course of action was to bandage his head and leave him to sleep it off. Dentos was worse off, his nose seemingly broken again and he kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Vaelin decided he should go to the infirmary along with Barkus whose wound was beyond their skill to stitch. Dentos was put to bed by a harassed Master Henthal and Barkus allowed to go after his cut had been stitched and smeared with corr tree oil, a foul smelling but effective guard against infection. They had left him watching over Nortah to take their turn on the wall.

“Vanos Al Myrna,” Caenis said, “is not a man to be easily understood. But disloyalty is ever a difficult thing to fathom.”

“Disloyalty?”

“He was banished to the Northern Reaches twelve years ago. No one knows why for sure but it is said he questioned the King’s word. He was Battle Lord then and King Janus may be kindly and just but he could not tolerate disloyalty from one so high in his court.”

“And yet here he is.”

Caenis shrugged. “The King’s forgiveness is famed. And there have been rumours of a great battle in the north, beyond the forest and the plains. Al Myrna supposedly defeated an army of barbarians who came across the ice. I must confess I gave it little credence but perhaps he is here to report to the King on the victory.”

He was Battle Lord before my father, Vaelin realised. He remembered now although he had been very young. His father came home and told his mother he would be Battle Lord. She had gone to her room and cried.

“And his daughter?” he asked, trying to dispel the memory.

“A Lonak foundling so they say. He came upon her lost in the forest. Apparently the Seordah allow him to travel there.”

“They must hold him in high esteem.”

Caenis sniffed. “The regard of savages means little, brother.”

“The Seordah with Al Myrna seemed to have little regard for our ways. Perhaps to him we’re the savages.”

“You give his words too much credence. The Order is of the Faith and the Faith cannot be judged by one such as him. Although, I confess I am curious as to why the Tower Lord should bring him here to gawk at us.”

“I don’t think that’s why he came. I suspect he had business with the Aspect.”

Caenis looked at him sharply. “Business? What could they possibly have to discuss?”

“You cannot be entirely deaf to word of the world outside these walls, Caenis. The Battle Lord has quit his post, the King’s Minister has been executed. Now the Tower Lord comes south. It must all mean something.”

“This was ever an eventful realm. It’s why our history is so rich in stories.”

Stories of war, Vaelin thought.

“Perhaps,” Caenis went on, “Al Myrna had another reason for coming here, a personal reason.”

“Such as?”

“He said he and the Battle Lord had been comrades. Perhaps he wished to check on your progress.”

My father sent him here to see me? Vaelin wondered. Why? To check I’m still alive? See how tall I’ve grown? To count my scars? He had to force down the familiar well of bitterness building in his chest. Why hate a stranger? I have no father to hate.

Chapter 3

Only two boys were given their coins in the morning, both having been judged as displaying either cowardice or a chronic lack of skill during the battle. It seemed to Vaelin all the blood spilled and bones broken in the Test had hardly been worth the outcome, but the Order never questioned its rituals, they were of the Faith after all. Nortah recovered quickly, as did Dentos, although Barkus would have a deep scar on his back for the rest of his life.

As winter’s chill deepened their training became more specialised. Master Sollis’s sword scales acquired a daunting complexity and lessons with the pole-axe began to emphasise the discipline of close order drill. They were taught to march and manoeuvre in companies, learning the many commands that formed a group of individuals into a disciplined battle line. It was a difficult skill to learn and many boys earned the cane for failing to know right from left or continually falling out of step. It took several months of hard training before they truly felt they knew what they were doing and a couple more before the masters appeared satisfied with their efforts. All through this they had to keep up their riding practice, most of which had to be done in the evening during the shortening hours of dusk. They had found their own racing course, a four mile trail along the river bank and back around the outer wall which took in enough rough ground and obstacles to meet Master Rensial’s exacting standards. It was during one of their evening races that Vaelin met the little girl.

He had misjudged a jump over a fallen birch trunk and Spit, with characteristic bad grace, had reared, dumping him from the saddle to connect painfully with the frosted earth. He heard the others laughing as they spurred on ahead.

“You bloody nag!” Vaelin raged, climbing to his feet and rubbing at a bruised backside. “You’re fit for nothing but the tallow mill.”

Spit bared his teeth in spite and dragged a hoof along the ground before trotting off to chew ineffectually at some bushes. In one of his more coherent moments Master Rensial had cautioned them against ascribing human feelings to an animal that had a brain no larger than a crab apple. “Horses feel only for other horses,” he told them. “Their cares and wants are not ours to know, no more than they can know a man’s thoughts.” Watching Spit carefully show him his backside Vaelin thought if that was true then his horse had an uncanny ability to project the human quality of indifference.