Her words brought unwelcome memories of Sherin and he was pleased to find them nearing the hut. It was a ramshackle structure of driftwood with a slate roof and a stove-pipe chimney. There were no windows but a glow of candlelight emanated from the half-open door. A broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless jerkin sat on the sand outside, his curly blond hair ruffled by the wind as he worked, muscular arms flexing as his deft hands intertwined broad-bladed sea grass. A pile of completed baskets lay in the lee of the hut.
“Weaver,” Vaelin greeted him. “Good to see you again, sir.”
The broad, handsome face looked up, a faint smile curling the lips. The blue eyes tracked from Vaelin to Dahrena, blinked and returned to the work in hand. “Not hurt,” he said.
The door creaked, opening to reveal a slightly built man with long ash-grey hair, and a less-than-welcoming expression. “What do you want?” he asked Vaelin. His voice was hard with resentment, possibly at their intrusion or perhaps the fear Vaelin had induced at their last meeting.
“Same as before, brother,” Vaelin told him. “Answers to difficult questions.”
Harlick shook his head, turning back inside. “I have no answers for you. Just let me be . . .”
“Your Aspect would disagree, I think.” Harlick paused and Vaelin continued, “I met him recently. Your name came up. Would you like to know the context?”
The librarian sighed through gritted teeth and went back inside, leaving the door open. Vaelin bowed to Dahrena, “My lady, shall we?”
Harlick’s hut was furnished with a simple table, chair and narrow cot. An iron stove stood in the corner, a recently boiled kettle steaming atop the hob. The table was piled high with parchment, several quills scattered about the pages amongst inkpots, most empty. By far the most salient feature of the hut, however, was the scrolls, stacked against the far wall, twenty high from floor to ceiling.
“Do you forget them?” Vaelin asked. “Once you’ve written them down?”
Harlick made a harsh grating noise that might have been a laugh as he moved towards the stove.
“I am remiss, my lady,” Vaelin said. “Allow me to present Brother Harlick of the Seventh Order, former scholar to the Great Library in Varinshold. Brother, this is the Lady Dahrena Al Myrna, First Counsel to the North Tower.”
Harlick offered Dahrena a shallow bow. “My lady. Please forgive the meanness of my home. I have freshly brewed tea if you would care for some.”
Dahrena returned the bow with a polite smile. “Another time, sir.”
“Just as well.” Harlick lifted the kettle from the hob. “I only have enough for one more cup.” He spooned some leaves from a clay pot into a small porcelain cup and poured in the water.
“Your Aspect had a story to tell,” Vaelin said. “About a forest and a dead boy.”
He was impressed by the absence of a tremble in Harlick’s hand as he stirred the tea leaves. He did, however, cast a guarded look at Dahrena.
“I hold no secrets from this lady,” Vaelin told him.
Harlick sighed and shook his head. “You are a liar, my lord. We all hold secrets. I expect the lady has a whole bushel of her own, and I’m certain you do.”
He’s different, Vaelin decided. Lost his fear somehow. His gaze wandered to the scrolls covering the far wall. Something he read perhaps?
“Tell me,” Harlick said, sitting on the only chair and sipping his tea. “Did my Aspect give you a message for me? A command to answer your questions?”
“No,” Vaelin replied. “But he did tell me your mission here was not some sacred trust. You do not enjoy his favour. You are lucky, in fact, to be alive, and this”-he cast his gaze around the hut-“is your punishment. You are in exile.”
“As are you.” Harlick sounded weary, putting his cup aside and reclining in his seat. “If you’re here for vengeance, just get it done. My actions may have been misguided but they were driven by honest and unselfish intent.”
For the first time in years Vaelin felt a true anger building in his breast. “Misguided? You set assassins to kill me in the Urlish. Instead they killed my brother. A boy of just twelve years. They cut his head from his shoulders. Were you there for that? Did you linger to see the results of your unselfish intent?”
“My lord,” Dahrena said in a quiet voice and Vaelin realised he was advancing on the scholar, fists clenched.
Harlick merely stared up at him, face impassive save for a mild curiosity.
Vaelin took a deep breath and stepped back, forcing his hands open. “You know of my gift?” he asked when his breathing had calmed enough to speak in an even voice.
“Manifestations Volume One,” Harlick recited in a flat tone. “Index Four, Column One. All known instances recorded amongst the Seordah, none concurrent. Seordah name translates as ‘Song of Blood’ or ‘Blood Song’ depending on inflection. Known manifestations in the Realm at the time of writing: none. All detected manifestations to be reported to the Aspect with extreme urgency.” He met Vaelin’s eyes then spoke on. “Addendum: known manifestations in the Realm: One.”
“When?” Vaelin asked. “When did you know?”
“Before you did, I expect. The prophecy was unusually unambiguous. ‘Born of the healer and the Lord of Battle.’ Who else could it be?”
“And what else did this prophecy tell you?”
“‘He will fall to the One Who Waits under a desert moon and his song be claimed by reborn malice.’” Harlick took another sip of tea. “I was not prepared to see that happen.”
“The Aspect told me there was another prophecy, one not quite so pessimistic. One you chose not to believe.”
“We all make choices. Some are harder than others.”
“So you hired assassins to prevent the prophecy’s ever coming true.”
“How would I go about hiring assassins? A scholar of the Grand Library is not so resourceful, especially since I knew my Aspect would be unsympathetic to my intent. But as it transpired, research revealed an interested party who had ample knowledge of such matters. A king’s First Minister is required to dirty his hands on numerous occasions, I expect.”
A king’s First Minister . . . “Artis Al Sendahl. Nortah’s father hired the men?”
“And required little persuasion, I assure you. He made a show of reluctance at first but a few whispers of my Dark knowledge and he was all enthusiasm, his duty to the Realm demanded it no less. Plus with the Battle Lord’s boy tragically taken from the Order, there would be no reason to keep his own son shackled to them.”
“But when your scheme failed . . .”
“We had made great efforts to conceal our involvement, but your Order is persistent. It took them two years or more to ferret out the truth, and when they did . . . my Aspect was not pleased. I expect the matter was communicated to the King in due course, hence Lord Al Sendahl’s execution, supposedly on charges of corruption.”
Janus’s words, from years ago: He wasn’t a thief of coin, he was a thief of power. Nortah’s father was executed for exercising the power to kill, a power reserved to the King.
“There was someone else there that night,” he said to Harlick. “The assassins spoke of another one. One they feared. Who was it?”
The scholar sipped some more tea. “I know of no other.” For the first time there was some fear there, just a small flare to the nostrils, a slight twitch to the mouth . . . and a discordant note from the blood-song.
“You know my gift,” Vaelin reminded him.
Harlick put down his tea cup and said nothing. Vaelin felt his fists begin to curl again, knowing he could beat it out of Harlick if he chose to, for all his apparent unconcern the man remained a coward at heart. “There are others,” he said. “Others in the Seventh Order who shared your belief. You did not act alone.” The blood-song’s murmur confirmed it as Harlick maintained his silence. “Even now,” Vaelin went on. “All these years later, you cling to your delusion. That what you did was right.”