“The emperor stripped him of his wealth, had his tongue cut out and his eyes blinded, then sent him forth to live out his days as a beggar. Most Alpirans think he was being unduly lenient. They are a fine people, courteous and generous to a fault, but unforgiving when roused. You should remember that, brother.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance when he failed to reply. “I must say I’m surprised your song led you here. You must know this invasion is doomed.”
“My song has been… inconsistent of late. It has told me little for a long time. Until I heard your voice, it had been silent for over a year.”
“Silent.” Ahm-Lin seemed shocked, his gaze becoming curious. “What was it like?” He sounded almost envious.
“Like losing a limb,” Vaelin replied honestly, realising for the first time the depth of loss he had felt when his song fell silent. It was only now it had returned that he accepted the truth, the song was not an affliction. Sella had been right; it was a gift, and he had grown to cherish it.
“Here we are,” Ahm-Lin spread his arms wide as they arrived at the rear of the workshop where a large bench was covered in a bewildering array of neatly arranged tools, hammers, chisels and oddly shaped implements Vaelin couldn’t name. Nearby a ladder was propped against a large block of marble from which a partly completed statue emerged from the stone. Vaelin drew up in shock at the sight of it. The snout, the ears, the finely carved fur, and the eyes, those unmistakable eyes. His song was singing a clear and warm note of recognition. The wolf. The wolf that had saved him in the Urlish. The wolf that had howled its warning outside the house of the Fifth Order when Sister Henna came to kill him. The wolf that had restrained him from murder in the Martishe.
“Ah…” Ahm-Lin’s rubbed at his temples, his expression pained. “Your song is strong indeed, brother.”
“Sorry.” Vaelin concentrated, trying to calm the song, but it was a few seconds before it subsided. “Is it a god?” he asked Ahm-Lin, gazing up at the wolf.
“Not quite. One of what the Alpirans call the Nameless, spirits of the mysteries. The wolf features in many of the named gods’ stories, as guide, protector, warrior or spirit of vengeance. But it is never named. It is only ever just the wolf, feared and respected in equal measure.” He regarded Vaelin with an intent gaze. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? And not captive in stone.”
Vaelin was momentarily wary of disclosing too much to this man, a stranger with a song that had nearly killed him after all. But the warmth of his own song’s welcome overcame his distrust. “It saved me. Twice from death, once from something worse.”
Ahm-Lin's expression showed a brief flicker of something close to fear but he quickly forced a smile. “Interesting seems an inadequate term for you, brother. This is for you.” He gestured to a nearby work bench where a block of marble rested, a chisel sitting atop it. The block was a perfect cube of white marble, the same block from his vision when Ahm-Lin’s song had laid him low, its surface smooth under Vaelin’s fingers.
“You obtained this for me?” he asked.
“Many years ago. My song was most emphatic. Whatever rests inside has been waiting a long time for you to set it free.”
He lifted the chisel, touching the blade tentatively to the stone. “I’ve never done this,” he told Ahm-Lin. “Can’t even carve a decent walking stick.”
“Your song will guide your hands, as mine guides me. These statues are as much the work of my song as my skill.”
He was right, the song was building, strong and clear, guiding the chisel over the stone. He hefted a mallet from the bench and tapped the butt of the chisel, chipping a small piece of marble from the edge of the cube. The song surged and his hands moved, Ahm-Lin and the workshop fading as the work consumed him. There were no thoughts in his head, no distractions, there was just the song and the stone. He had no sense of time, no perception of the world beyond the song and it was only a rough shake to the shoulder that brought him back.
“Vaelin!” Barkus shook him again when he didn’t respond. “What
Vaelin looked at the tools in his dust caked hands, noting his cloak and weapons laying nearby and having no memory of removing them. The stone was radically altered, the top half now a roughly hewn dome with two shallow indentations in the centre and the ghost of a chin forming at the base.
“Standing here hammering away with no weapons and no guard,” Barkus sounded more shocked than angry. “Any passing Alpiran could have stuck you without breaking sweat.”
“I… ” Vaelin blinked at him in confusion. “I was…” He trailed off realising any explanation was pointless.
