wonder why I felt the need to torment him so. Perhaps because he killed my older brother, but that was a necessary act, one Tehlvar and I orchestrated, in fact. Or it could be what he tried to do to my sister, she being so precious to me. But no, I made him watch as I slaughtered the others. I flayed him, I bled him, I visited all manner of humiliations on his flesh and left him a broken old wretch because I just didn’t like him. Much like you and Babukir, eh?” He grinned up at Vaelin. “I imagine he’s not the first man you disliked. Did you torture any of them to death?”
“No,” Vaelin said, “despite often sore temptation.”
Kehlbrand gave a soft laugh and rose, gaze still lingering on the head of his murdered priest. “But all the torment wasn’t the worst of it. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to see the great lie of his existence. And so I made him touch it. After that, he begged for the blade and I gave it to him.”
“Touch what?”
Kehlbrand angled his head, gaze narrowing. “You already know, I think,” he said in a very soft voice, extending his arm so the torch’s glow illuminated something in the centre of the chamber.
It stood about four feet high with a wide base that narrowed as it rose before widening into a flat top. Vaelin’s heart lurched at the sight of it, pulse throbbing his temples as he moved closer. How foolish we were, he thought, to imagine there would be only one.
As his gaze roved over the stone, he saw it wasn’t entirely a twin of the one that had lain beneath the arena in Volar. Whilst its surface was mostly black, there were veins of reddish gold running through it that flared with unnatural brightness when the torchlight caught them.
“You have seen one like this before,” Kehlbrand said, moving to stand on the opposite side of the stone. He attempted to conceal it but Vaelin could hear the hungry note in his voice. “If there is another somewhere in the world, I would dearly like to know where.”
“There was,” Vaelin said. “Pounded into dust and cast into the ocean. It’s gone forever.”
A thin hiss escaped Kehlbrand’s lips as he shook his head. “A terrible waste. A crime in fact.”
“No. An act of dire necessity.” Vaelin nodded to the stone. “If you truly care about your people, you will do the same with this thing.”
“It is thanks to this that my people prosper. With this I have freed thousands from bondage and will soon free thousands more from the greedy yoke of the Merchant Kings.”
“Killing how many in the process?”
“Only as many as is necessary. Unless”—Kehlbrand’s mouth twitched as his eyes flicked to the priest’s skull—“I happen across some I dislike along the way.”
The humour slipped from his face and he focused a hard, inquisitive gaze on Vaelin. “You stole my name, Darkblade.”
“It was given to me. I didn’t choose it and I never wanted it.”
“Nevertheless, you carry it with you. The name is part of your legend, and names are important, names have power. Some years ago there was a man, a Skeltir of great renown whom the tale-tellers had dubbed the Blade of Darkness, whereas the priests had named me the Darkblade. You see the problem, I assume?
“I was kind to this man, at first. For I knew I would have use of his battle skill in years to come, and so sent a gift of gold and horses with a polite request that he choose another name. He took my gold and my horses, and sent my messenger back minus his tongue. He was an older man, you see, this Blade of Darkness, his pride swollen by never having tasted defeat.
“I killed his sons so that he might know the taste. One by one in single combat they fell to me, and each time I sent the same request and the same gifts, and each time he took my gifts and the tongues of my messengers. Taking him alive required a war of many weeks and a great deal of blood, but finally I had him, bound and kneeling before me. I made the same request and a promise: ‘Choose another name and I will restore you. I will give you horses, I will give you warriors, you will stand high in the Hast and we will be brothers.’ He cast his spit at my