Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (15 page)

“Will you . . . fight her . . . when she comes again?”

“I will have to.”

“Will you . . . kill her?”
Lyrna’s head began to loll and her vision swam as exhaustion began to overtake her.

“No!” Davoka shook her, drawing a groan of complaint. “Can’t sleep now. Sleep now, won’t wake up come the light.”

Won’t wake up come the light . . .
Would it really be so bad? What was she now in any case? Useless, childless, unwed sister to a foolish king, seeking proof of the impossible through this mad endeavour.
Nersa died, Brother Hervil died. Why shouldn’t I?

“Lerhnah!” Davoka took hold of her face, shaking it, hard. “No sleep.”

Her head came up with a snap and she blinked, chill-born tears streaming from her eyes. “Do you love your husbands?”

Davoka’s face showed a momentary relief then she laughed. “That is your word.”

“What is the Lonak word?”

“
Ulmessa.” Great and deep affection. Affection for one not of your blood.

“You feel this for them?”
Lyrna asked.

“Sometimes, when they’re not doing the foolish things men do.”

“Years ago I felt it, all the time. For a man who looked at me and saw something vile.”

“Then he was a fool and you are well rid of him.”

“He was no fool, he was a hero, not that he knew it. We could have ruled the Realm together, he and I, as my father had ordained. It would all have been so very easy.”

“Your father was leader of all the Merim Her, was he not?”

“He was. Janus Al Nieren, Lord of Asrael and ruler by conquest of the Unified Realm.”

“Then why did you not honour his wishes? Take this man you wanted, be king and queen together?”

“Because I couldn’t kill my brother, as you can’t kill your sister.”

Brother Sollis stirred and rose, barely making a sound, pausing at the sight of a half-naked Davoka embracing the Princess of the Unified Realm.

“Queen is too cold,” Davoka told him. “Fetch more wood.”

◆ ◆ ◆

She had recovered enough by morning to stumble in Davoka’s wake as they reached a valley floor and continued north. She was aware the Lonak woman had slowed her pace and found her constant scrutiny disconcerting, as if she feared her charge would drop dead at any moment. Smolen and Ivern took turns helping, lifting her clear of streams and half carrying her when it seemed she was about to collapse. They rested more often today, brief but welcome pauses during which Davoka or Sollis would force her to eat the dried beef and dates the brothers carried, though her appetite seemed to have all but disappeared.

“She needs rest and shelter,” Smolen said late in the afternoon. “We cannot make her go any further.” There was an edge of panic to his voice and his gaze had taken on a certain wild-eyed cast.

“Do not speak for me . . .” Lyrna began then choked off as a coughing fit took her.

Davoka directed a questioning glance at Sollis. The Brother Commander gave a reluctant nod.

“Two or three miles that way,” Davoka said, pointing east with her spear. “A village. We shelter there.”

“Is it safe?” Lyrna croaked.

The guarded look in Davoka’s eyes as she turned away was answer enough.

◆ ◆ ◆

The village consisted of a few dozen stone-built dwellings contained within a solid wall. It sat atop a pear-shaped hill rising from the floor of a broad valley through which a fast-flowing river wound its way south. Davoka led them to a marker stone at the base of the hill where a rough gravel track ascended to a gate in the wall. She reversed her spear, resting it on the ground, point first, and waited.

“Which clan lives here?” Sollis asked her.

“Grey Hawks,” she responded. “Big hate for the Merim Her. Many Sentar come from Grey Hawk villages.”

“But you expect them to help us?”
Lyrna asked.

“I expect them not to question the word from the Mountain.”

It was the best part of an hour before the gate swung open, thirty or more men on ponies emerging, descending the hill at the gallop. “Do not touch your weapons,” Davoka told the men as the Lonak party neared.

The rider at the head of the group reined to a stop a short distance away, holding up a hand to halt the other riders. He was a large man wearing a vest of brown bear’s fur and the most extensive tattoos Lyrna had seen yet, covering his forehead, neck and arms in a whirling confusion of unreadable symbols. He sat regarding them in silence, face impassive, then trotted forward until he loomed over Davoka. A war club and hatchet hung from his belt.

“Servant of the Mountain,”
he greeted Davoka.

“Alturk
,”
she responded.
“I require the shelter of your home.”

The big man guided his pony past Davoka and towards where Lyrna was slumped against the packs. She could sense the tension of Smolen and the brothers as they fought the impulse to reach for their swords.

“You are the Queen of the Merim Her,” the big man said to Lyrna in passable Realm Tongue. “I had heard you scarred the false Mahlessa. Now I see that to be a lie.” He leaned forward in his saddle, dark eyes glowering. “You are weak.”

Lyrna forced herself to stand and fought down a cough.
“I did scar her,”
she replied in Lonak.
“Give me a knife and I’ll scar you too.”

Something twitched in the big man’s face and he reclined in his saddle, grunted then turned his mount back towards the village.
“My door is always open to the Servants of the Mountain,”
he told Davoka before spurring to a gallop.

“You spoke well, Queen,” Davoka told her with grave respect.

“Next to history,” Lyrna replied, “diplomacy is my favourite subject.” With that she vomited before falling into a dead faint.

W
orld Father, I beg you, do not deny your love to this miserable si
nner.

Reva had chosen the topmost room in the house. In truth it was more an attic, the roof featuring a good-sized hole she had inexpertly repaired with some nailed-on boards. She sat on a small cot, the room’s sole furnishing, sliding her knife along a whetstone. The Darkblade was arguing with his sister downstairs, or rather she was arguing with him, voice loud and angry, his soft and soothing. Reva hadn’t known Alornis could get angry. Kind, generous, given to laughter despite her many troubles, but not angry.

The drunken poet was singing in the courtyard outside, as he often did when the hour grew late. She didn’t recognise the song, some sentimental doggerel about a maiden waiting for her lover by a lake. She had thought his fondness for song might have been stilled by the presence of so many onlookers, but if anything the crowd of wide-eyed idiots gathered beyond the cordon of Palace Guard only seemed to encourage him.

“Thank you, thank you,” she heard him say, no doubt offering a bow for their non-existent applause. “Every artist appreciates an audience.”

“Easy for you to say, brother!” Alornis’s shout came through the floorboards. “This is not your home!” A door slammed and Reva heard the drumming of feet on the stairs, making her eye the attic door in trepidation.
Why did I choose one without a lock?

She fixed her gaze on the knife blade as it scraped along the whetstone. It was a fine knife, the finest possession she had ever owned in fact. The priest told her the blade was fashioned by Asraelin hands but that shouldn’t prevent her from using it. The Father did not hate the Asraelins, but their heresy made them hate him. She must care for this knife, hone it well, for with it she would do the Father’s work . . .

The door flew open and Alornis stormed in. “Did you know about this?” she demanded.

Reva kept working the blade on the stone. “No, but I do now.”

Alornis took a deep breath, mastering her anger, wandering in a small circle, fists clenching and releasing. “The Northern Reaches. What in the name of the Faith am I supposed to do in the Northern Reaches?”

“You’ll need furs,” Reva said. “I hear it’s cold there.”

“I don’t want any bloody furs!” She paused at the small, cracked window set into the slanting roof, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault.” She came and sat on the bed, patting Reva’s leg. “Sorry.”

World Father, I beg you . . .

“He just doesn’t understand,” Alornis went on. “Spent his life wandering from one war to another. No house, no home. No idea that leaving here would be like leaving my soul behind.” She turned to Reva, eyes bright and moist. “Do you understand?”

My home was a barn where the priest would beat me if I didn’t hold a knife the right way.
“No,” Reva said. “This place is just bricks and mortar, tumble-down bricks and mortar at that.”

“It’s my bricks and mortar, half-ruined though it may be. Thanks to my darling brother it now actually belongs to me, after all these years. And as soon as it belongs to me, he makes me give it up.”

“What would you do with it? It’s a big place and you are . . . small.”

Alornis smiled, eyes downcast. “I had notions, dreams really. There are many like me, many who want to learn to do what Master Benril can do, or acquire the knowledge his Order holds, but barred from it because of sex or differing faith. I thought this could be a place to teach them, once I’d learned enough.”

Reva watched Alornis’s hand on the fabric covering her thigh, feeling the warmth of it, how it made her burn . . . She sheathed her knife and got up from the cot.
World Father, do not deny your love to this miserable sinner.

She went to the window, looking through the dirt-encrusted glass at the fires of the crowd beyond the cordon.
A fine frothing of Faithful fools,
the poet had called them, speaking uncharacteristic wisdom.

“More come every day,” she said. “Just half a dozen two days ago, now more than fifty. All seeking your brother’s support, or just a word of acknowledgment. In time his silence will make them angry, an anger they’ll turn on you when he’s gone on his King’s mission.”

Alornis raised her eyebrows, giving a short laugh. “Sometimes you sound so old, Reva. Older than him in fact. You’ve spent far too much time together.”

I know.
Too long waiting for him to fulfil their bargain. Too long stilling her tongue, fooling herself it was because she wanted more lessons with the sword, more knowledge to use against him when the time came. Too long living this lie, too long with
her
. Every day she felt the love of the Father move further away, the priest’s cries coming to her in her dreams, the cries he uttered through raging spittle the day he gave her the worst beating of her life.
Sinner! I know what vileness lurks in your heart. I have seen it. Filthy, Fatherless sinner!

“Your brother’s right,” she told Alornis. “You have to go. I’m sure you’ll find others to teach, and they say there are many wonders in the north. You won’t be short of things to draw.”

Alornis gave her a long look, the smallest crease appearing in her smooth brow. “You’re not coming, are you?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Many wonders, you said. Let’s see them together.”

“I can’t. There is something . . . else I must do.”

“Something else? Something to do with your god? Vaelin says you are fierce in your devotion, but I’ve not heard you say a word about him.”

Reva was about to protest then realised it was true. She had never told Alornis about the Father’s love, or the warmth it gave her, how it fuelled her mission.
Why?
The answer came before she could suppress it.
Because you don’t need the Father’s love when you’re with her.

Filthy, Fatherless sinner!

“Across the valley, deep and wide,” came the poet’s voice from outside as he started up a new tune. “With my brothers by my side . . .”

Reva went to the window, pushing it open with difficulty, yelling into the dark. “Oh, shut up, you drunken sot!”

Alucius fell silent and for once there was a murmur of appreciation from the crowd.

“We leave tomorrow,” Alornis said in a soft voice.

“I’ll travel with you a ways,” Reva said, forcing a smile. “Your brother has a bargain to keep.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The King had supplied horses and money, a large bag of money in fact, some of which Al Sorna had given to her. “A holy quest requires funding,” he said with a grin.

Reva had taken the money with a glower, slipping away as they packed. It was easy to avoid the crowd, simply wade into the river a short way then follow the bank for a hundred yards. She made her way to the market, bought new clothes, a fine cloak waxed against the rain, and a sturdier pair of boots, shaped for her feet by an expert cobbler who told her she had dancer’s toes. From his grimace she divined this wasn’t a compliment. He gave her directions to her next port of call, not without a note of suspicion in his voice. “What would a dancer be wanting there?”

“Gift for my brother,” she told him, paying a little extra to forestall any more curiosity.

The swordsmith’s shop fronted a yard which rang with the constant fall of hammer on steel. The man in the shop was old and surprisingly thin, though the burn scars discolouring the knotted muscle of his forearms told of a life in the smithy. “Your brother knows the sword, lady?”

Not a lady,
she wanted to snap back, disliking the pretence of respect. Her accent and lack of finery marked her clearly enough and any respect he felt owed more to the bulging purse on her belt. “Well enough,” she told him. “He’d like a Renfaelin blade, the kind a man-at-arms might use.”

The smith gave an affable nod and disappeared into the recess of his shop, returning with a sword of very basic appearance. The handle was of unadorned wood and the hilt a thick bar of iron. The blade was a yard of sharpened steel ending in a shallow point, free of any etching or decoration.

“Renfaelins are better at armour,” the smith told her. “Their swords have no art, more a club than a blade, in truth. Why don’t you let me show you something a little finer.”

And more expensive,
she thought, eyes drinking in the sight of the sword.
He carried one just like this, and made art aplenty with it.

She nodded at the smith. “Perhaps you’re right. My brother’s a slighter fellow than most, about my size, truth be told.”

“Ah. A blade of the standard weight would not suffice, then?”

“Something lighter would be better. But no less strong, if possible.”

He considered a moment then raised a hand indicating she should wait, disappearing again to emerge shortly after with a wooden case a yard or so long. “Perhaps, this may suit.”

He opened the case, revealing a weapon with a curved blade, single-edged, less than an inch across and a handspan shorter than the Asraelin standard. The guard was a circle of bronze moulded into an unfamiliar design, the hilt wrapped in tight-bound leather for a strong grip and long enough to be grasped by two hands.

“You made this?” she asked.

The old smith smiled in regret. “Sadly no. This comes from the Far West where they have strange ways of working steel. See the pattern on the blade?”

Reva looked closer, discerning dark regular swirls the length of the steel. “Is it writing?”

“An artifact of its fashioning only. They fold the blade, you see, over and over, then coat it in clay as it cools. Makes for great strength, but without the weight.”

Reva touched a hand to the hilt. “May I?”

The old man inclined his head.

She hefted the sword, stepping back from the counter and going through one of Al Sorna’s sword scales, the most recent one he’d taught her, designed to foil an attack by multiple opponents in an enclosed space. The sword was only a little heavier than the stick she practised with and well balanced, giving a faint musical note as it sliced the air. The scale was brief but strenuous, requiring several fully extended thrusts and a double pirouette to finish.

“Beautiful,” she said, holding the blade up to the light. “How much?”

The smith was looking at her with a strange expression, reminiscent of the looks men had given Ellora when she danced. “How much?” Reva repeated, putting an edge on her voice.

The smith blinked and smiled, replying in a somewhat thick voice. “Do that once more and I’ll throw in the scabbard for free.”

◆ ◆ ◆

She made it back to the house in good time, sloshing up to the courtyard to find Al Sorna saying his good-byes to the drunken poet. “You could come with us,” he said.

Alucius demurred with a florid bow. “The prospect of isolation, cold and constant threat from savages, all at a far remove from a decent vineyard, is a delightful one, my lord. But I think I’ll pass. Besides, without me, my father will have no-one left to hate.”

They clasped hands and Al Sorna went to his horse, glancing at Reva and taking in the sword strapped across her back. “Was it expensive?”

“I bargained it down.”

He pointed at a grey mare, saddled and tethered to the post beside the well. The priest had tutored her in riding and she slipped onto the mare’s back with practised ease, undoing the tether and falling in alongside Al Sorna. Reva watched Alornis embrace Alucius, fighting down the lurch in her chest at the tears shining in the girl’s eyes, the way the poet thumbed them away, speaking soft words of comfort.

“You know he loves her, don’t you?” she asked Al Sorna, keeping her voice low. “That’s why he comes here every night.”

“Not to begin with. I expect the King was keen to ensure my sister’s interests didn’t stray beyond matters artistic.”

“He’s a spy?”

“He was. With his father out of favour, I doubt he had much choice. It seems Malcius has more of Janus in him than I thought.”

“And you allowed him to keep coming here?”

“He’s a good man, like his brother before him.”

“He’s a drunkard and a liar.”

“Also a poet and, on occasion, a warrior. A person can be many things.”

There was a commotion amongst the watching throng, the guardsmen raising their pole-axes in warning as a man in a black cloak rode through the crowd. She heard Al Sorna groan in consternation. The man halted before the guards, speaking in a loud voice heavy with authority. The guard captain gave an emphatic shake of his head and a terse gesture of dismissal. Reva noticed the other guards stiffen as several more black-cloaked men appeared out of the crowd, all armed.

“Come on,” Al Sorna said, nudging his horse into motion. “Time for you to meet a kindred spirit.”

The man on the horse was thin to the point of gauntness, hollow cheekbones shaded beneath deep-seated eyes, his close-cropped hair steel-grey and thinning. He wore an expression of deep scrutiny as he offered Al Sorna a respectful nod, his gaze dark and piercing as if he were trying to cut away the Darkblade’s skin and glimpse the soul beneath. Reva noted how the guards and the black-cloaked men eyed each other with wary eyes whilst the crowd looked on in rapt silence.