sand. He sat at a small desk with a book in one hand whilst his other held a pen, poised with predatory expectation over a sheaf of parchment.
“A lustrous mane of golden hair!” Vaelin heard him exclaim in a mutter rich in judgemental satisfaction, his pen scratching ink on the parchment. “Lakril’s hair was brown, you fool.”
“Aspect Dendrish got it wrong again, I take it?” Vaelin enquired.
“The fifth error I’ve found.” Erlin reclined in his seat, rubbing at his eyes. “If he wasn’t dead I’d be minded to write him a very lengthy and sternly worded letter.”
“I doubt he’d have read it. He was never fond of criticism.”
Erlin slowly lowered his hand from his eyes, which had taken on a glint of cautious curiosity. “Wasn’t expecting you for a few weeks. Got another language to learn?”
“I’m not here for language lessons.” Vaelin moved to lift the book from the table, reading the title on the spine: Madness and Royalty—The Reign of the King Lakril by Dendrish Hendrahl, Master of the Third Order. “This time it’s your favourite subject,” he said. “History.”
“Your library is nearly as rich as mine,” Erlin pointed out.
“Not with regards to the Far West. For that, I need you.”
“And what’s in the Far West that concerns you so?”
Someone I loved . . . “The Stahlhast,” Vaelin said, setting the book down. “And the Jade Princess.”
Erlin stroked his increasingly fulsome beard. When he had first taken up residence on this beach, it had been black shot through with grey; now it was grey shot through with ever-diminishing threads of black. There was also a stoop to his shoulders that hadn’t been there a year ago, and he was given to groaning and rubbing his back whenever he got to his feet. Vaelin did his best not to stare as Erlin rose from the table, teeth bared in a grimace, but witnessing the rapid onset of age in one who had been ageless stirred a deep well of guilt. He lost his gift at my behest, Vaelin reminded himself, his self-reproach unalloyed by the knowledge that there had been no choice. Trapping the Ally in a physical body required a vessel possessed of sufficient power to lure him from the Beyond, but the price had been high. A man who had walked the earth for more years than he could remember now knew death to be but decades away, if not sooner. For all that, he remained a surprisingly cheerful soul and content in his labours.
“Faith,” Erlin breathed. He spent a few seconds massaging the base of his spine before moving to the shed. “I’ll make tea. This isn’t a short tale.”
The hut’s interior was even more filled with scrolls than at Vaelin’s first visit here years before, though in a much less orderly state. They lay piled in each corner amidst the stacks of books, which Erlin preferred. “Never could get on with Harlick’s penmanship” was his excuse for the disregard he displayed towards the hut’s previous occupant. Vaelin suspected it had more to do with a basic dislike of the author, an attitude with which he had some sympathy.
“You were supposed to check his work,” he pointed out, taking a seat at the table whilst Erlin poured the tea. “He writes me letters enquiring as to your progress every few months. Apparently, the shelves of the Grand Library yearn for these tomes.”
“They can yearn a bit longer,” Erlin replied. “Not my fault Harlick chose the most boring twaddle to transcribe, is it?”
He pushed a steaming cup across the table and sat down, sipping his own beverage, brows creased in thought. “It’s been quite a long time since I heard mention of the Stahlhast,” he said. “Can’t say they’ve made a huge mark on Far Western history.”
“I believe that may be about to change.” Vaelin went on to describe the events of the previous few days. He left out nothing, reasoning that of the two of them, Erlin possessed by far the greater number of secrets.
“General Gian.” Erlin’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Him I have heard of. Must’ve been near twenty years ago, but he had a fine reputation even then. As I recall, he made his name defeating the Black Banner Fleet during the wars with the Northern Pirate Alliance, a feat that had eluded a dozen predecessors. Not a man to scare easily.”
“The Stahlhast scared him enough to make him sail across the Arathean in search of novel weapons. What are they?”
“A people best avoided,