The sound of Ayin’s voice drew my attention from the book. The soft and perfect sound drifted from the larger fire where the rest of the party sat. Quintrell’s mandolin added a harmonious underpinning to the song that followed, one of Ayin’s nonsense compositions that usually aroused appreciative laughter. Tonight, however, the concoction of rhyming doggerel heralded a sombre mood. The words themselves were the usual meaningless mishmash, but the tune told another story. Looking across at the oval of her face, rendered yellow in the campfire’s glow, I perceived a sadness I hadn’t before. I had always suspected there might be an unseen depth of feeling beneath Ayin’s guileless exterior and now saw it revealed in stark detail.

  Witnessed one battle too many? I wondered. Cut one too many throats?

  I looked away when the plaintive call of her next verse sent an uncomfortable lurch through my chest. The list of horrors witnessed by this young woman had been long and not limited to battle. The Sacrifice March loomed largest, but I knew she had also seen grimness aplenty during my absence from the company when Evadine and the Crown Host completed the subjugation of Alundia. And it’s far from over, I knew, watching her complete the song with a modest inclination of her head for the applause she received. I couldn’t see her blush when Adlar pressed a kiss to her cheek, but was sure she did.

  No more, I decided with sudden conviction. No more war for her. When we return she’ll spend her days at the cathedral and sing all the songs she likes. The thought was accompanied by a pang of guilt-tinged envy. I could spare her what came next, but I couldn’t spare myself.

  There are some who claim that noble blood carries with it the essence of greatness. Those born with this remarkable stuff coursing through their veins are, it is asserted, imbued with gifts of intellect and fortitude to which the lower orders can never aspire. It should come as scant surprise, cherished reader, that I have never held to such notions. Yet, if I had, they would most certainly have been dispelled by my first glimpse of Lord Archel Shelvane. The banner of House Shelvane that hung behind his chair was emblazoned with a boar of unfeasibly long tusks. But I fancied this was not the reason this caretaker of the Dukedom of Althiene was known as the Pig of the North. Personally, I feel this name to be an insult to pigs, an animal of which I have always been fond.

  “No council?” Lord Archel enquired amid a sputter of wine and half-chewed pie. His fleshy face formed what I took to be a squint, although it was hard to tell under the mingled grease and sweat that covered his wobbling jowls. “What d’you mean, man? How can there not be a Luminants’ Council?”

  “It has been dissolved, my lord. The Anointed Lady Evadine Courlain, Risen Martyr and First Among the Faithful, has ordained it so.” I maintained an even tone as I spoke, one stripped of doubt, presenting myself as a messenger bearing plain and inarguable facts. Although I saw little of intelligence in Lord Archel’s small eyes, I did note a measure of cunning in the way they glinted in the light of the many candles adorning his table. I had been offered neither a seat nor a share of the copious feast arrayed before him.

  He held court in the hall where once his slain cousin had sat, a spacious chamber dominating the ground floor of Castle Pendroke. Unlike other ducal seats, this holdfast was not located in the heart of a city or attached to an adjoining town. Constructed three centuries before, this grim fortification of tall granite walls and high watchtowers sat amid the southernmost cliffs and crags of the Althiene mountains. Getting here had entailed an unpleasant journey of inconstant weather and perilous tracks. I knew from my research that Castle Pendroke had never been successfully stormed, and only infrequently besieged. One look at its location made it plain as to why. It also caused me to wonder why the late Duke Guhlton hadn’t simply fortified his position here when he broke with the Algathinets. If he had, I harboured little doubt it would be to his far more astute ear I would now be relating my news.

  “Dissolved, is it?” Lord Archel said, displaying a habitual tendency to repeat the last words to make purchase on his mind. He burped, long and loud, then reached for a wine goblet. We were alone in his chamber apart from a single servant and a brace of guards. Another choice that made me judge this man not a complete fool. “Can I assume,” he continued, after several gulps sent crimson rivulets across his jowls, “this was done with the full approval of the Princess Regent?”

  “Covenant matters lie outside the province of the Crown, my lord,” I replied. “As I’m sure you are aware.”

  “So, no.” His goblet made a loud thunk as it connected with the table, falling over to spill its contents. Lord Archel barely seemed to notice, reaching for another slice of pie while his servant quickly recovered and refilled the fallen vessel. This bugger has never wiped his own arse, I decided, watching Archel chew, small eyes aglitter.

  “Why come all this way to tell me, Scribe?” he asked after much mastication.

  “The Anointed Lady wishes to present her compliments, my lord.” I summoned a faint smile, ignoring the obvious barb in his failure to address me by my title. “And invite you to attend supplications at the Holy City at your earliest convenience, where she shall be honoured to afford your rule of this duchy her blessing.”

  “Blessing, is it?” His lips, small stripes of shiny pinkness in a sweaty blanket, parted to reveal unswallowed food as he laughed. “Pray tell, what use is a blessing, Scribe? Can it pay my servants, my soldiers? Can it get all those dirt grubbers and coin-hoarding merchants to pay their fucking tithes?”

  “The blessing of the Anointed Lady will do much to win the hearts of the faithful in your duchy, my lord. And, as word of her ascension spreads, so will the weight of her word increase. She is aware of your difficulties in this land, of course. Word has reached her of those who still swear fealty to a fallen, traitorous duke and infest the hill country, plotting rebellion.”

  “They do more than plot,” Archel huffed, pushing his plate aside and reaching again for his goblet. “Murdered my nephew last week, they did. He was an awful wastrel, to be frank, but his mother never tires of pestering me about it. Strung up a dozen clansmen for the crime, but that’s not enough for her. Wants the hill country burned and left barren. Vicious bitch.” He gulped more wine. “Just like our mother.”

  “My condolences.” I formed my face into something suitably grave and sympathetic. “While I’m sure you wouldn’t stoop to such extremes, and neither would the Anointed Lady, she has never stinted in bringing her strength to bear on those who engage in unjust rebellion. I have little doubt she would do so while Althiene stands imperilled, especially since you appear to be in want of reinforcement from the Crown.”

  “The Crown, eh?” A facility for concealing his thoughts was not among the negligible gifts enjoyed by this man, for the calculations churning within his skull were plain in his squinting gaze, the small eyes near disappearing amid the bunching of cheek and brow. “Princess Leannor promised me five hundred men-at-arms to garrison this draughty pile come the summer.”

  Whether this was true or not mattered little. Here we had arrived at the crux of whatever bargain might be struck betwixt this cunning glutton and the Covenant Resurgent. “The summer is many months away,” I pointed out. “While I need but send a galloper to Athiltor and you will have five hundred Covenant soldiers garrisoned here by winter’s dawn.”

  Somewhere beneath the flesh of Archel’s face, his tongue worked to move something about his mouth. His jaw snapped and a piece of bone appeared clamped between his teeth, a scrap of gristle dangling from the protruding end. I had thought the many battlefields I had seen to be rich in the most disgusting spectacles I could ever wish to behold. This came close to outdoing them all. “Soldiers who’ll follow my orders?” he enquired, lips squirming around the bone.

  “Of course. As long as such orders do not conflict with Covenant lore.”

  He snorted and the bone vanished into his maw, his nostrils flaring in a grunt of apparent satisfaction. “Tell your Risen Martyr I’ll be glad to receive her blessing, once her soldiers have assisted me in securing this duchy. ’Course…” he paused to belch again “… I’ll need to pay my own levies too. The rents for all the Covenant lands held within the borders of Althiene should suffice.”

  I could have argued more, bargained him down as I had Lorine, but my desire to rid myself of his presence was too strong. Besides, once the Ascendant Queen sat on the throne this particular agreement could be renegotiated and if this fool didn’t like it, I had already compiled a list of other Pendroke relatives likely to prove more amenable.

  “The people of Althiene are fortunate in their governance, my lord.” I complemented this, one of the most outrageous lies I have ever uttered, with a bow of obsequious depth. By way of a reply Lord Archel Shelvane contrived to both burp and fart in unison.

  Upon being conveyed to the presence of Lord Lohrent Lambertain, Duke of the Cordwain, I wondered if his reception might be a deliberate attempt to provide a contrast to his ill-mannered neighbour. His keep, Castle Norwind, was a sprawling holdfast occupying the high ground above the Cordwain port city of Leavinsahl. When I presented myself at the castle gate, the guard captain greeted me with a curt civility and lack of surprise that made it clear my visit was expected. This impression was cemented by the fact that, instead of meeting me alone save for servants and soldiers, the duke treated me to an audience with both himself and his eldest son, Lord Gilferd. He sat to his father’s right, a young man a few years my junior, his face a youthful mirror of the duke’s austere, high-cheekboned countenance.

  “We bid you welcome, Lord Scribe.” The duke addressed me in a gravelly voice that told his age better than his appearance. I knew from my recent reading that this man was near seventy and his heir the fruit of his third marriage, the others producing only daughters. His smile was tight and far from warm, while Lord Gilferd had no smile for me at all. Seated behind the two lords was a dozen-strong party I took to be the duke’s chief retainers and principal advisers. They were a mismatched lot of grizzled knights and skull-capped scholars, none of whom appeared any happier to see me than their liege lord. The most significant personage among them was a tall, ashen-haired woman in the grey robe of an Ascendant. Of them all, only her demeanour was, predictably, openly hostile.

  “I am both honoured and humbled to stand before you, my lord.” Sensing that the blatant flattery I had shown to Lord Archel would find scant welcome here, I gave a bow of strictly appropriate depth. “And, if I may speak as a soldier, also grateful.”

  The duke arched an eyebrow. “How so, my lord?”

  “Why, in every battle I’ve fought, it has been my fortune to have brave Cordwainers at my side.”

  “It is the point of honour for the Lambertain family that we never shirk our duties.” Despite his words, I detected no pride in Lord Lohrent’s tone. “The king calls for soldiers and we answer. Such is the way with dukes and kings.”

  “Your loyalty is to be cherished by any monarch.” I bowed again before speaking on with brisk formality. “I come before you bearing the word of the Risen Martyr and Anointed Lady—”

  “And heretic!” The interruption came in the form of a shrill exclamation from the Ascendant. The woman rose to her feet, features quivering with genuine outrage. “The vilest of heretics, in truth! A desecrator of the Covenant. I beseech you, my lord—” she swung her fierce gaze upon Duke Lohrent “—cast this known murderer and liar from your keep…”

  “Ascendant Hielma!” When raised to a commanding bark, it transpired that the duke’s voice held no gravel at all. Falling abruptly silent, the cleric sank back into her seat, posture stiff and jaw clenching.

  “My apologies, Lord Scribe.” Lohrent afforded me another tight smile, even thinner than the first. “I abhor all manner of rudeness to my guests. It has long been the custom of the Cordwain that those who present themselves in peace are received in kind.”

  “I suffer no offence, my lord.” Inclining my head, I shot a pointed glance at the Ascendant. “Change is ever a painful thing to the rigid of mind, especially one steeped in unearned privilege.”

  I turned away from Ascendant Heilma’s reddening visage, addressing my next words solely to the duke. “The Risen Martyr wishes it known that she blesses your house and your duchy. She would be both honoured and delighted to formalise this blessing should you attend her at Athiltor.”

  “An invitation I thank her for.” Lohrent followed this response with what I knew to be a deliberately prolonged pause. It was a ploy I had used when questioning prisoners. The desire of the needy to fill a silence will often provoke ill-chosen words, or even the spillage of secrets. I bore it with a bland patience, my eyebrows raised in only slight expectation. I saw a faint pulse of amusement pass across the duke’s face before he spoke again.

  “I understand you were kind enough to bring players to my keep,” he said.

  “I did, my lord. A trio, in fact. A juggler, a minstrel, and a singer possessed of the purest voice and finest verses in all Albermaine.”

  “An impressive boast.”

  “I am not given to boasting, my lord. If you would care to hear her sing you will know me no liar.” Another barb in the Ascendant’s direction, one that provoked a caustic laugh.

  “Hear her I shall.” The duke put his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself upright. His household all followed suit while I sank to one knee. “Tonight,” Lohrent added. “What kind of host would I be if I failed to honour such a singular guest with a feast? We shall talk more when I’ve heard your songbird. But I caution you, to win your desired reward, her song need be special indeed.”

  Ayin, as ever when it came to music, didn’t disappoint. Her performance came after Adlar had captured the audience’s attention with a dazzling display. After an impressive opening with the usual clubs and balls, he provided a parting spectacle by asking the crowd to volunteer various objects for him to juggle. One of the duke’s knights had given over his longsword, presumably in the expectation that Adlar would surely drop it as he cast the sundry items, eight in all, into the air. He didn’t. The sword he flung high while working the collection of pots, bottles and goblets into a rapid circle. When the sword descended, he cast the smaller items high, caught and flung the weapon again before catching the other items and repeating the process.

  Quintrell eschewed a solo performance in favour of acting as Ayin’s accompanist. At my urging, she began by delighting the feasting lords, ladies and court functionaries with renditions of popular favourites. The tunes were jolly at first, the kind that usually invited the audience to join in, but not tonight. They all stared in growing fascination at this slender girl with a voice and face that many might fancy to be a Seraphile made flesh. As I hoped, fascination turned to moist-eyed rapture when she sang her own compositions. “Who Will Sing for Me?” engendered a great deal of eye wiping followed by riotous applause, but it was “The Warrior’s Lament” that provided the crowning glory of Ayin’s night.

  “The days of this war, they grow ever longer. The deeds of this war, do darken my soul…”

  As she sang, I took careful note of Lord Lohrent’s reaction, finding his face set in serene appreciation rather than the wonder I hoped to see. His son, however, was a different matter. Lord Gilferd stared at Ayin with the unblinking but nervous agitation of a young man finding himself lost in his first amorous obsession. I found this gratifying and worrisome in equal measure. A smitten heir to the Cordwain duchy may prove useful, but a spoilt lordling intent on pursuing a low-born soldier in the Covenant Host was a potential complication. No doubt, he looked upon Ayin and saw an enchanting waif with a voice that could pierce the heart. Finding her to be something else entirely would assuredly bring resentful disappointment.

  Lord Gilferd’s father apparently had a similar gift for observation to my own. “Stop squirming, boy,” I heard him mutter in sharp rebuke when he noticed his son’s increasing loss of composure. The youth barely seemed to notice, his excitement only mounting as Ayin approached her final verse.

  “For I’ll face my fate a man of great sorrow, I’ll face my fate deserving I know.”

  As the last note drifted into the beams of the chamber there came a short moment of unbroken silence, then the crowd erupted in applause, all save the duke rising to their feet to hail the songstress with claps and cheers, none louder or more enthusiastic than Lord Gilferd.

  Inevitably, Ayin and Quintrell were compelled to provide several encores by an audience unwilling to let them go. Ayin was clearly bemused by the acclaim but the far more seasoned minstrel asked them to call out their favourite tunes, to be sung only if they filled his hat with coin. This brought about a good deal of shouted disagreement as Quintrell roved the room, hat outstretched and coins clinking as differing factions vied to hear their songs sung. The ongoing noise enabled me to lean closer to the duke and murmur a question.

  “Special enough for you, my lord?”

  “A remarkable talent, to be sure, Lord Scribe.” He inclined his head. “Especially in one so young.”

  “Then come to Athiltor and hear her again.” I nodded at his son, now staring at Ayin with what can only be called stupefaction. “Bring Lord Gilferd, if it please you.”

  A spasm of irritation passed over the duke’s face as he turned to his heir. “Sit straighter,” he snapped. “Dukes-to-be don’t slouch at table.” Father and son exchanged a glare of mutual resentment before the youth consented to lower his gaze and stiffen his back into a marginally more regal pose.

  “I’m curious,” Lohrent said, turning to me, “did Lord Archel consent to receive the Anointed Lady’s blessing when you called upon him?”

  That he knew of my visit to his eastern neighbour was no surprise. This man exuded the assured confidence of one who had successfully navigated the often lethal currents of Albermaine politics all his life. Such a man would not be wanting for intelligence.