Tower Lord
Page 27
“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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Reva
World Father, I beg you, do not deny your love to this miserable sinner.
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 . . .”
“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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Reva
World Father, I beg you, do not deny your love to this miserable sinner.
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 . . .”
