buried in this place. So Luralyn had her artisans gather wood into a tall pyre atop which the small, still-youthful body of an ancient woman was placed, doused with oil and set aflame.
“She lied to me,” Sherin said, frowning as she watched the rising smoke shroud the silk-covered corpse. “But I find I can’t hate her.”
“I’m not sure she did lie,” Vaelin said, turning to Luralyn. “His followers were supposed to turn on him, I assume, once they heard her song.”
Luralyn stared at the flames and nodded. “We shared a True Dream over a year ago. How she found me, I do not know. But she offered hope, a hope that we could end this before it began. A hope that lived in her song.”
“True Dream?”
“A . . . vision, you would call it. I prefer to think of them as dreams that hold truth, about the past, or the future. Sometimes . . .” She lowered her gaze, eyes closed. “Sometimes they are nightmares.”
“That’s why you conspired against your brother. You saw his future.”
“Yes, and it was worse than any of my fears made real. Of course, when I awoke the next day he knew something had changed. So I told him of the Jade Princess and her desire to sing for him, a dutiful sister warning her brother of danger. And I told him of the healer, and her connection to you. The Jade Princess would bring her to us and you would follow. The Thief of Names within his grasp. As for her song, ‘Let her come,’ he said. ‘I like music.’ Godhood has made him arrogant, made him imagine he can withstand all threats.” She closed her eyes, adding in a bitter sigh, “Perhaps he’s right.”
Vaelin looked around at the sound of an impatient grunt. Their hosts’ previous indifference had abruptly transformed into close and careful scrutiny. They were encircled by a dozen Stahlhast guards, the portly artisan with the binding gift also standing close by. The veteran Stahlhast with the scars marring his beard had charge of the escort and stepped forward to heft Vaelin’s sword with a raised eyebrow. Kehlbrand evidently had no intention of forsaking the chance to enhance his legend.
“Don’t,” Sherin said, reaching out to clasp Vaelin’s arm. He saw how she forced herself to meet his gaze, shame bright in her eyes. She began to say something else, then faltered.
“The Princess’s song was hard to hear,” Vaelin said.
“Yes,” she whispered. “This is all because of me. My pride, my stupidity, my anger . . .”
She trailed off as Vaelin raised a hand to cup her cheek. “I think I have enough of those for both of us,” he said before turning to Luralyn. “All eyes will be on the duel. Take her and ride south for Keshin-Kho. You’ll find refuge there.”
Luralyn let out a hopeless, mirthless laugh. “There is no refuge to be had now. Not from him.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
A large patch of ground beyond the encampment had been roped off to provide a site for the duel. It lay in a shallow depression in the otherwise featureless Steppe, providing the mass of spectators a decent view of the proceedings. The veteran Stahlhast led Vaelin through a dense throng of onlookers, the guards forcing a path with ungentle insistence. Judging by the hungry malice on every face, word had clearly spread of Vaelin’s supposed perfidy. Many muttered as he passed by, presumably curses, obscenities or wards against his heretical evil. It soon built into an ugly growl, the crowd becoming more agitated, one woman lunging forward to hurl her spit into Vaelin’s face. The veteran Stahlhast swiftly drew his sabre and cut her down with a stroke that sundered her from shoulder to breastbone.
He barked something at the suddenly quiet throng, Vaelin hearing the words “Mestra-Skeltir” amongst the angry torrent as the veteran levelled his bloodied blade at them in warning. The other guards all drew their sabres, and the gap between Vaelin and the crowd widened by several yards. Given their numbers he doubted it was fear of the guards that kept them at bay; the Darkblade’s word bound them all, and his legend would hardly be enhanced should the villain of the story be torn apart by an angry mob.
Once clear of the onlookers he found Derka waiting, stamping his hooves and tossing his head in irritation. The artisan holding his reins stood as far from the stallion as he could, a fresh bruise on his cheek.