The Chief Judge took several seconds to reply and Vaelin could see from the tension in his face that he recognised the grave import of his words. “I believe question is warranted, yes.”

The door to the chamber opened abruptly and Captain Smolen entered, coming to attention before the King and saluting smartly.

“Found him have you?” the King asked.

“I have Highness.”

“Whorehouse or redflower palace?”

Captain Smolen’s only sign of discomfort was to blink twice. “The former, Highness.”

“Is he in a fit state to talk?”

“He has made efforts to sober himself, Highness.”

The King sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Very well. Bring him in.”

Captain Smolen saluted and strode from the room, returning a few seconds later with a man dressed in expensive but soiled clothes. He walked with the precise gait of one who worries he might tip over at any moment, the redness of his eyes and sallowness of his stubbled complexion bespoke several hours of excess. He looked to be in his forties but Vaelin guessed him to be younger, a man aged by indulgence. He halted next to Aspect Arlyn, greeted him with a cursory nod, then bowed extravagantly, but unsteadily, to the King. “Highness. As ever I am honoured by your summons.” Vaelin noted the man’s accent: Cumbraelin.

The King turned to his scribes. “Let the record show that his Honour, Lord Sentes Mustor, heir to the Fiefdom of Cumbrael and appointed representative of Cumbraelin interests to the Court of King Janus, is now in attendance.” He turned a level gaze on the Cumbraelin. “Lord Mustor. And how are you this morning?”

Lord Al Telnar gave a muted snort of amusement.

“Very well, Highness,” Lord Mustor replied. “Your city has always been very kind to me.”

“I am glad. Aspect Arlyn you know of course. This young man is Brother Vaelin Al Sorna, recently returned from the Martishe forest.”

Lord Mustor’s gaze was guarded as he turned to Vaelin, nodding a formal greeting, but his tone remained cheerful, if forced. “Ah, the blade that won me ten golds at the Test of the Sword. Well met young sir.”

Vaelin nodded back but said nothing. Mention of the Test of the Sword tended to darken his mood.

“Brother Vaelin has brought us some documents.” The King took the letters from Lord Al Genril. “Documents that raise questions. I believe your opinion of their content would be valuable in discerning their intent.” Vaelin took note of Lord Mustor’s momentary hesitation before stepping forward to take the papers from the King’s hand.

“These are letters of free passage,” he said after scanning the pages.

“And they are signed by your father, are they not?” the King asked.

“That… would appear to be the case, Highness.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how Brother Vaelin came to find them on the body of a Cumbraelin heretic in the Martishe forest.”

Lord Mustor’s gaze swung to Vaelin, his reddened eyes suddenly fearful, then back to the King. “Highness, my father would never place documents of such import in the hands of a rebel. I can only imagine they were stolen somehow. Or perhaps forged…”

“Perhaps your father could provide a more absolute explanation.”

“I-I have no doubt he could Highness. If you would care to write to him…”

“I would not. He will come here.”

Lord Mustor took an involuntary step backwards, fear now obvious in his face. Vaelin could tell the situation dwarfed him, he was being tested and found wanting. “Highness…” he stammered. “My father… it is not right…”

The King let out a long sigh of exasperation. “Lord Mustor, I fought two wars against your grandfather and found him an enemy of considerable courage and cunning. I never liked him but I did respect him greatly and I feel he would be grateful he is no longer here to see his grandson gabble like the whoring drunkard he is when his fief stands on the brink of war.”

The King raised a hand to beckon Captain Smolen over. “Lord Mustor will be our guest in the palace until further notice,” the King told him. “Please escort him to suitable quarters and ensure he is untroubled by unwanted visitors.”

“You know my father will not come here,” Lord Mustor stated flatly. “He will not be put to the question. Imprison me here if you must but it will make no difference. A man doesn’t place his favoured son in the hands of his enemy.”

The King paused, regarding the Cumbraelin lord with a narrow gaze. Surprised you, Vaelin realised. Didn’t think he had the stomach to speak up.

“We’ll see what your father does,” the King said. He nodded to Captain Smolen and Lord Mustor was led from the room, two guards following close behind.

The King turned to one of his scribes. “Draft a letter to the Fief Lord of Cumbrael commanding his presence here within three weeks.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “This meeting is over. Aspect Arlyn, Brother Vaelin, please join me in my rooms.”

Everything in the King’s quarters gave an overwhelming impression of order, from the angle of the finely woven carpets on the tiled marble floor to the papers on the large oaken desk. Vaelin found nothing to compare to the cramped, hidden room of books and scrolls he had been led to eight months before. That was where he worked, he realised. This is where he wants people to think he works.

“Sit, please brothers,” the King gestured at two chairs as he settled behind his desk. “I can send for refreshment if you wish.”

“We are content, Highness,” Aspect Arlyn replied in a neutral tone. He remained standing, obliging Vaelin to follow suit.

The King’s gaze lingered on the Aspect for a moment before he turned to Vaelin, his lips forming a smile beneath his beard. “Note the tone, my boy. No respect but no defiance either. You’d do well to learn it. I suspect your Aspect is angry with me. Why can that be I wonder?”

Vaelin looked at the Aspect who stood expressionless, offering no reply.

“Well?” the King pressed. “Tell me, brother. What could have aroused the anger of your Aspect?”

“I cannot speak for my Aspect, Highness. The Aspect speaks for me.”

The King snorted a laugh and smacked his palm on the desk. “You hear it, Arlyn? His mother’s voice. Clear as a bell. Don’t you find it chilling at times?”

Aspect Arlyn’s tone was unchanged. “No, Highness.”

“No.” The King shook his head, chuckling slightly and reaching for a wine decanter on his desk. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He poured himself a glass of wine and settled back into his chair. “Your Aspect,” he told Vaelin, “is angry because he believes I have set the Realm on the road to war. He believes, with some justification I might add, that the Fief Lord of Cumbrael will happily let me hack his drunken son’s head from his shoulders before setting foot outside his own borders. This in turn will force me to send the Realm Guard into his fief to root him out. Battles and bloodshed will result, towns and cities will burn, many will die. Despite his vocation as a warrior, and therefore a practitioner of death in all its many forms, the Aspect believes this to be a regrettable action. And yet he will not tell me so. It has always been his way.”

Silence reigned as the two men matched stares and Vaelin experienced a sudden revelation: They hate each other. The King and the Aspect of the Sixth Order detest the sight of one another.

“Tell me, brother,” the King went on, addressing Vaelin but keeping his eyes on the Aspect. “What do you think the Fief Lord will do when he hears I have taken his son and commanded his presence?”