“That sounds like something the princess regent would say.”

  Ayin grinned in response, her smile slowly fading as her eyes lingered upon my face. “I’m sorry…” she began, the words faltering in her mouth. She had learned a good deal of eloquence at Leannor’s side, but some circumstances still stumped her. “For all you have lost,” she managed after a short cough. “I wouldn’t have asked this of you, but…” She shrugged, letting out a discomfited laugh. “Well, there wasn’t anyone else.”

  “Such honour you do me, my lady.” I bowed and gestured to the cathedral steps. “Shall we?”

  The edifice of the great building was a good deal cleaner now, such things having been neglected during the Ascendant Queen’s residence in Athiltor. It was still a city of grim aspect, for Evadine had not been sparing with her wrath even here. The extensive gallows had been dismantled and the rubble of the many destroyed houses cleared away. I took some comfort from finding the library intact along with most of its books, save the most valuable which had been stolen when Evadine’s appointed librarians fled in advance of the Crown Host.

  King Arthin’s victory over the False Queen had been marked by a good deal of celebration throughout the realm, but also an eastward migration of undaunted adherents to the creed of the Risen Martyr. Little remained of the Ascendant Host itself save a few maddened souls who continued to haunt the woods near Castle Ambris, raving or muttering about the Seraphile visitation they had witnessed. But the crusading army of the Ascendant Queen had mostly been reduced to ash or corpses that required weeks of labour by Lorine’s servants to clear away or consign to the earth.

  Others who still proclaimed Evadine a Risen Martyr and clung to her example began their eastward trek although a few had been foolish enough to try and preach in Evadine’s name, proclaiming reports of her death as Algathinet lies and promising her imminent return and righteous vengeance. The reward for such oratory was usually a hail of stones if they were lucky or a lynching if they were not. However, most of these Risen-ites, as they came to be known, wisely chose to flee for safer climes, hopefully never to trouble these lands again.

  “It’s part of your role to make sure I don’t trip,” Ayin reminded me, placing a dainty hand in mine as we started up the steps. “This dress is not made for such simple tasks as walking from one place to another.”

  The dress, with its long train, ivory-hued lace and gold-embroidered bodice, had been insisted upon by the princess regent with the words, “A duchess cannot marry in rags.” To our rear, Princess Ducinda dutifully raised the hem of the silken train in her small hands as we ascended the steps.

  The ceremony itself was mercifully brief, conducted by an unfamiliar senior cleric of Aspirant rank who had escaped Evadine’s purges via the good fortune of having been on pilgrimage far to the east throughout the crisis. Duke Gilferd cut a reasonably handsome dash in a suit of silver gilded armour and was unabashedly delighted in his bride. For her part, Ayin maintained a serene, dignified aspect throughout the proceedings, apparently unconcerned by the presence of a large proportion of Albermaine nobility, those who had survived what had become known as the Martyr’s War. Duke Lermin of Dulsian was, of course, absent as he remained under royal stricture not to venture beyond his duchy’s borders. Duchess Lorine had sent impressively expensive gifts but begged forgiveness for her absence due to many pressing duties in the Shavine Marches, repairing the damage to Castle Ambris being chief among them. Also, only a handful of Rhianvelan nobles had complied with the princess regent’s summons, former ambassador Jacquel Ebrin principal among them in his newly appointed role as lord governor. From his strained demeanour I could tell he would much rather be playing dice in a tavern somewhere, and the sparsity of his retinue boded ill for the future unity of the realm. I chose not to dwell upon it, for such concerns were no longer my province.

  When the time came and the Aspirant asked “Who passes guardianship of this woman into her husband’s care?” I duly placed Ayin’s hand in Gilferd’s outstretched palm whereupon the cleric bound them together with a silk ribbon. “And so,” he intoned, “these two souls are joined in the sight of the Seraphile and in accordance with the Martyrs’ example, for now and ever more.”

  When they kissed and I saw the fierceness with which Ayin embraced her husband, any doubts I harboured regarding the wisdom of her choice slipped away. This was a healed soul, one for whom killing would, I hoped, be a dim and ugly memory. In her, at least, I felt I had done something right.

  The formal ceremony was followed by a gathering in the cathedral gardens, where once I had watched Evadine strike a bargain with Leannor’s kingly brother. It all seemed so long ago now, an event already consigned to history rather than relatively recent memory. I drank wine from a crystal goblet and watched Ayin and Gilferd, arms entwined, make a tour of the guests. I felt the young duke to be a stiff and awkward contrast to his bride’s gregarious charm.

  “I flatter myself,” Leannor said, coming to my side and inclining her head at the happy couple, “that I’ve taught her rather well, don’t you think?”

  “She’ll govern the duchy, with your kind guidance, and he’ll fight any battles that need fighting.” I raised my glass to her. “A fine match, Majesty.”

  “Entirely their own choice, I assure you. In truth, I asked her to forgo marriage for a while, finding her quite the most useful lady-in-waiting ever to grace the court. But love, especially young love, cannot be so easily denied.” She paused, sipping her wine, eyes cautious above the rim of the glass. “I wonder, my lord, have you given any more thought to my offer?”

  “I have, and I find my opinion unchanged. Though, of course, I thank you for your consideration.”

  “To become Lord Marshal of the Crown Host is perhaps the pinnacle of knightly ambition, and yet you shun it.”

  “I have never entertained any knightly ambitions, Majesty, and I feel I’ve seen enough battles in this life. I shall consider myself the most fortunate of souls if I never witness another. Besides—” I gestured to the small contingent of Alundian nobles present, Roulgarth standing tallest among them “—I feel there is a far more suitable candidate at hand.”

  “An Alundian lord marshal.” Leannor gave a short laugh. “I think not. Besides, Lord Roulgarth has graciously accepted the role of Lord Governor of Alundia, until such time as his niece comes of age. When that day comes, he has avowed a desire to return to Caerith lands. Apparently, he feels more at home there.”

  My gaze shifted to Ducinda at play with a clutch of other children. Young King Arthin stood apart from the group as they ran and giggled, a peevish scowl upon his face. “So,” I said, “Ducinda will be both Duchess of Alundia and Queen of Albermaine. A good deal of power to invest in one so young.”

  “My future daughter-in-law is precious to me.”

  More precious than the spoilt, humourless whelp that is your son? I thought, fighting down the terrible temptation to ask the question aloud.

  “So, my lord,” Leannor went on, “if I can’t tempt you with matters military, what role would you accept?”

  “Extreme as your kindness is, Majesty, I am minded to spend some time travelling, alone. I feel my spirits would be enlivened by solitude and a change of surroundings.”

  Leannor’s humour faded and she gave a tight smile. “You have much to grieve over, I know. Your son…” It wasn’t like her to be lacking in the correct form of words, but expressing due commiseration with a man who watched his infant child burn to death would defeat even the most verbose soul.

  “With your leave, Majesty,” I said with a bow, deciding to spare her the trial. “I have preparations to make for my journey.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She returned the bow then, as I turned to go, reached out to clasp my hand. “Should you ever weary of the journey, and the solitude, know that there is always a place for you in this court.”

  Bowing lower, I backed away, and my last ever view of the Princess Regent Leannor Algathinet-Keville was of her approaching the newly married bride and groom, laughing as she clasped hands with her favourite lady-in-waiting. In a life of storms, I hazard this may have been Leannor’s happiest moment. Although never afforded the title of monarch, she remains the greatest ruler ever to govern Albermaine, though if you are of historical inclinations, you will know she paid a very high price for the many years of peace that were her legacy.

  I found Desmena lurking among the columns at the top of the cathedral steps. Twilight had settled upon the sky and the shadows were long and apt for concealment. Had she wished me harm she might have succeeded where so many others failed. Yet, I saw no knife in her hand, just a question writ large upon her face.

  “Not joining the celebrations, my lady?” I asked.

  She gave a dismissive grunt. “Wasn’t invited. Not all rebels are truly welcome in the court of the princess regent, regardless of what pardons she issues.”

  “So, you won’t be joining the Crown Host, I assume?”

  Her features bunched in affronted disgust. “Serve an Algathinet? Never.”

  “Holding fast to the True King’s cause, even now?”

  “A cause so just can never be forsaken. I shall go east, find others exiled for their part in the Lochlain’s crusade. Mark you well, Scribe, his banner will fly again.”

  I swallowed a weary sigh and nodded in farewell. “Then, I bid you safe travels. Although you will, I’m sure, forgive me for not also wishing you success. This land has seen enough of war.”

  “Wait,” she said as I started down the steps. Pausing, I saw a rare uncertainty on her face, a plea in her eyes that told me the nature of her question before she asked it. “He lied, didn’t he? Wilhum. It wasn’t him who betrayed my father.”

  This time I didn’t conceal my sigh, coloured now by anger rather than tiredness. “Your father was a sadistic bully of vile inclinations who fully earned the ugliness of his end, and more. Whoever set him on the path to the gallows deserves your gratitude.” Seeing the sudden paleness of her face as the words struck home, my anger dissipated. “As Wilhum deserved a better death,” I added. “For he was worthy of your brother, even though I don’t think he agreed. Mourn them both, my lady.”

  I turned and descended the steps without waiting for an answer.

  The Caerith had mostly disappeared from the Shavine Marches within days of the battle’s end. A few lingered, I assumed due to curiosity or an adventurous spirit, but within a few weeks the bulk of the great host of toalisch, veilisch and Paelith had made its way back beyond the mountains. Uthren, however, chose to stay and it was upon his back that I departed Athiltor that night. I made no farewells and was careful to check I wasn’t followed as I made my way through the disused earthworks at the edge of town to discover the paelah waiting for me.

  “Thought you’d gone home,” I said, raising a hand to his muzzle. He responded with a brief nibble at my palm before tossing his head, apparently keen to be off.

  It took two days for him to carry me to the heart of the Shavine Forest. The inferno birthed at Castle Ambris had wreaked considerable destruction before the skies consented to unleash a welcome torrent of rain. We rode through several charred swathes of ground and it was a relief to find the familiar overgrown stone oval of Leffold Glade undamaged and concealed amid a thick band of trees.

  “Started to think you weren’t coming, Captain,” Tiler greeted me as Uthren came to a halt in the lee of the ancient amphitheatre.

  “Leaving before the wedding would’ve aroused suspicion,” I said, getting down from the paelah’s back. “Besides, it felt right that Ayin should have one of us there. Any trouble?”

  “Quiet as a whorehouse during supplications, though I reckon his cries could be heard miles off. Seems the forest’s empty, of people at least.”

  “Get them saddled,” I said, nodding to where Adlar and the other scouts were tending to the horses. “We set off before nightfall.”

  “We’ve a visitor, by the way,” he told me as I started towards the gap in the amphitheatre’s vine-covered wall. “Turned up this morn with gifts for the young ’un.”

  Lorine’s face was a picture of maternal joy as she cradled Stevan in her arms, cooing softly and teasing his lips with a finger. Her only escort was a familiar figure in armour who greeted me with a stiff bow. Dervan Pressman had been elevated to the rank of knight after leading the foray from Castle Ambris, an act that also earned him a livid burn scar to his forehead.

  “Alwyn!” Lorine said, adjusting her hold on the infant in her arms, provoking a shrill cry of protest. “Aww.” Lorine hugged him closer. “Aren’t you happy to see your papa?”

  Stevan, in truth, appeared more intent on fulsomely proclaiming his displeasure than affording any notice to his father’s arrival. “Here,” Juhlina said, gently taking the child from Lorine. “Once he starts, he tends to keep on for a while.”

  She gave me a tired smile of greeting and wandered off, rocking Stevan and humming a calming song.

  “How went the wedding?” Lorine asked me.

  “Well,” I said. “Your gifts were much appreciated.”

  “And the princess regent? Not too miffed, I hope.”

  “Apparently not, but it’s hard to tell.”

  Lorine’s lips formed a rueful grin. “From the number of spies she’s been seeding in my duchy, I’m forced to conclude I don’t fully have that woman’s trust, as yet.”

  “You turned your coat, more than once. Such things don’t breed trust. Sir Dervan’s heroics at Castle Ambris served to redress the balance somewhat. However, I wouldn’t press your luck in future. She’s learned a good deal of toleration, but she does have her limits.”

  Lorine accepted my judgement with a raised eyebrow, before inclining her head at Juhlina and a still screaming Stevan. “And your story. Did she believe it?”

  “As far she knows, Stevan Courlain died in the conflagration at Castle Ambris.”

  “He’ll need a new name, in time. The child of the Risen Martyr will have enough burdens to bear, her name should not be one of them. And, tolerant as the princess regent may be, she could never suffer him to live. Nor could the Covenant.”

  “I know.”

  Our eyes met, grave with mutual understanding, not just of my son’s vulnerability, but also the fact that this might well be the last time we ever met.

  “I…” Lorine said, swallowing and pointing to a small chest at Dervan’s feet. “I brought presents. Toys and such. Coin too. Best if you leave it in Juhlina’s hands, eh? You were never very good at holding on to it, as I recall.”

  “True enough.”

  Lorine clasped her hands together, brisk and ladylike. “As per your request, Captain Toria awaits you in Farinsahl. The port is mostly empty these days so there’ll be few eyes to witness your departure.”

  “My thanks, Duchess.”

  She nodded again, entwined fingers twitching. I had rarely seen Lorine so flustered. “I have every confidence,” I said, moving to take her hands in mine, “that our association is far from over, my lady.” Leaning closer, I placed a kiss on her cheek, whispering, “Deckin’s dead, and you’ve mourned long enough.” Stepping back, I cast a short but meaningful glance at Dervan.

  Duchess Lorine Blousset of the Shavine Marches, formerly Lorine D’Ambrile, queen to the Outlaw King Deckin Scarl, then did something I never saw her do before. She blushed.

  “Fare you well, Alwyn Scribe,” she told me, blinking tears and turning to her knightly escort. “Sir Dervan, the hour grows late and the road is long.”

  It required another three days to reach Farinsahl, the journey prolonged by the need to keep to the forest, avoiding the curious eyes of folk we might encounter on the roads. It was when we encamped on the last night that I felt able to ask Juhlina a question that had nagged at me for weeks. I watched her settle Stevan into his makeshift bed, positioned just close enough to the fire for warmth. Seeing the way she smiled as she tucked in his blanket, I debated the wisdom of asking my question, for it seemed wrong to spoil such a picture. However, she was ever perceptive of my moods and glanced up with a faint scowl.

  “What is it?”

  “The feather,” I said. “Why that and not a blade?”

  Sighing, she sat back from Stevan’s crib, eyes hooded with reluctance. I thought she might not answer, that this would be an eternal mystery between us, but then she spoke in a soft murmur, “I had a visitor who told me it had to be done that way.”

  The weight in her voice made the nature of this visitor clear. “Someone we knew?”

  “No.” Juhlina shifted, pulling her cloak more tightly about her. “An old man I’d never seen before, with a very strange accent, as if he had learned Albermaine-ish from a poor teacher. And his clothing was odd. He came to me the night before we rode with the Paelith to Castle Ambris. Until then, I hadn’t seen any of the… things you warned me of. He was the only spirit the feather saw fit to summon.” She paused, hands twitching in discomfort. “He knew things, events only you and I had shared. That night in the mill, for instance. And other things, such as the truth about the Risen Martyr’s healing. He said they were surety for the truth of his word. And he told me this: ‘Truth is the only means to loose the Malecite’s grip on a living soul,’ he said. ‘The feather’s gift is truth.’”

  “Was he tall?” I asked. “Dark of skin with a grey beard?”

  “He was stooped, as old folk often are, but I’d guess he’d been tall once. And his beard was white, and long. But yes. His skin was dark.”

  The historian. I found myself suppressing a shudder. Could his soul really have lingered so long just to impart this warning?

  “Did he tell you anything else?” I asked. “His name? Anything?”

  Juhlina shook her head and reached for my hand. “He did seem greatly tired, though, and greatly relieved. Like a man ready to depart this world. I think he was done, Alwyn. I think, once he had delivered his message, he could go. To where, I know not.”