Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (8 page)

They paused, Caenis regarding the fast-flowing river in silence for a moment. “Barkus,” he said eventually. “The captain of the ship taking him home had a tall tale to tell, about how the big brother threatened to hack his head off with an axe if he didn’t sail his vessel back to the Alpiran shore. When they got to the shallows he jumped over the side and swam for the beach.”

“How much have they told you?”

Caenis turned back from the river, eyes meeting his. “The One Who Waits. It truly was Barkus?”

So they told him. How much more does he know?
“No, it was something that lived in his skin. Barkus died during the Test of the Wild.”

Caenis closed his eyes, head downcast, voicing a sigh of deep sorrow. After a while he looked up, forcing a smile. “That just leaves the two of us, brother.”

Vaelin returned the smile, but it was a small one. “In truth it leaves just the one, brother.”

Caenis clasped his hands together, speaking in earnest tones. “Sister Sherin is gone, Vaelin. I have said nothing to the Aspect . . .”

“Sister Sherin and I were in love.” He spread his arms wide and shouted it out, the words carrying across the river: “I was in love with Sister Sherin!”

“Brother!” Caenis hissed, looking around in alarm.

“And it was not a transgression,” Vaelin went on, voice dropping to an angry rasp. “It was not
wrong
! It was glorious, brother. And I gave her up. I lost her forever in my final service to the Order. And I’m done. Tell the Aspect, tell the whole Realm if you like. I am no longer part of your Order and I no longer follow the Faith.”

Caenis became very still, his voice a whisper. “I know the years of imprisonment must have taken a toll on your spirit, but surely it was the guidance of the Departed that brought you back to us.”

“It’s all a lie, Caenis. All of it. As much a lie as any god. Do you want to know what that thing inside Barkus said before I killed it?”

“Enough!”

“It said a soul without a body is a wretched, wasted thing . . .”

“I said enough!” Caenis was white with fury, stepping back as if disbelief were catching. “You hear bile from a creature of the Dark and take it as truth. My brother was never so trusting, never so easily gulled.”

“I can always hear truth, brother. It’s my curse.”

Caenis turned away, mastering himself with some effort. When he turned back there was a new hardness in his gaze. “Do not call me brother. If you shun the Order and the Faith, you shun me.”

“You are my brother, Caenis. You always will be. It was never the Faith that bound us, you know that.”

Caenis stared at him, fury and hurt shining in his eyes, then turned to walk away. He halted after a few steps, speaking over his shoulder in a strained tone, “The Aspect wishes to see you. He said to make it clear it was a request, not a command.” He resumed walking.

“Frentis!” Vaelin called after him. “Do you have news of him? I know he still lives.”

Caenis didn’t turn around. “Talk to the Aspect!”

P
rincess Lyrna Al Nieren had never liked riding. She found horses dull company and the hardness of the saddle like to leave her with bruises she couldn’t ask her maid to salve. In consequence the many miles her party had covered on its journey north had done nothing to improve her temper. But then that was true of the last five years.

Does the rain ever cease here?
she wondered, peering out from the hood of her ermine-trimmed robe at the rain sheeting onto the slate-grey landscape. Five days out from Cardurin and the rain hadn’t stopped once.

Lord Marshal Nirka Al Smolen reined in alongside and saluted, rain streaming over his breastplate in a matrix of ever-changing rivulets. “Only five more miles, Highness.” His voice had a wariness to it. This endless journey was making her less restrained in voicing rebuke, and she knew her tongue could carry all the sting of an angry wasp when it chose to. Seeing the caution in his face she sighed.
Oh, give the man some respite, you hateful witch.
“Thank you, Lord Marshal.”

He saluted again, some small relief colouring his cheeks as he spurred on ahead to scout the route, a troop of five Mounted Guards in close escort. Another fifty closed in around her and the two ladies she had chosen to take north, hardy girls from country manors, of more middling rank than most of her attendants but not given to either giggles or complaints of discomfort. She gave Sable a nudge with her knee and they started forward, ascending the rocky path to the dark narrow slash of the Skellan Pass.

“Highness, if I may,” ventured Nersa, the taller of the two ladies. She was braver than Jullsa who was wont to lapse into prolonged silence after Lyrna’s more acid rebukes.

“What is it?” Lyrna said, feeling every jab of Sable’s hips despite the thickness of the saddle.

“Are we likely to see one today, Highness?”

Nersa had been fascinated by the prospect of laying eyes on a Lonak since leaving Varinshold. Lyrna put it down to the morbid curiosity of youth, like a child who prods at the guts of a dead dog. But so far the fabled wolfmen had been absent from their path, at least as far as they could tell.
None can hide so well as a Lonak, Highness,
the Brother Commander back at Cardurin had warned her, a husky man with bright shrewd eyes.
You won’t see them, but by the Departed they’ll see you before you’re ten miles from this city.

Watching the pass grow in size as they approached, a shadowed cavern cleaving into the mountain, Lyrna saw the first sign of fortification, a squat tower covering the southern approach, a faint speck of blue on the battlements. Some lonely brother on the morning watch no doubt.

“If not here, then likely not at all,” she told Nersa. Despite her brother’s assurances she still harboured deep doubts about this whole enterprise.
Can they really want peace after so many centuries?

◆ ◆ ◆

The Brother Commander waiting at the tower was somewhere past his fortieth year with cropped silver-grey hair and pale eyes beneath a scarred brow. He voiced his greeting in a harsh, battle-seasoned voice, bowing as low as formality required. “Highness.”

“Brother Commander Sollis is it not?” She climbed down from Sable, resisting the urge to rub some feeling into her benumbed rump.

“Yes, Highness.” He straightened, gesturing at two more brothers standing nearby. “Brothers Hervil and Ivern will also be accompanying us north.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Only three? Your Aspect assured the King of his full support for this mission.”

“There are only sixty brothers to hold this pass, Highness. I can spare no more.” There was a finality to his tone that told her no amount of regal intimidation, or grace, would change his mind. She had heard of him of course, the famed sword-master of the Sixth Order, scourge of Lonak and outlaw, survivor of the fall of Marbellis . . . Master to Vaelin Al Sorna.

Father, I beg you . . .

“As you will, brother,” she said, smiling. It was one of her best, gracious, not overly dazzling, with just the right amount of admiration in her eyes for the dutiful brother. “I would, of course, never question your judgement in such matters.”

The dutiful brother stared back with his pale eyes, face betraying no emotion whatsoever.

This one’s different, at least.
“The guide is here?”

“Yes, Highness.” He stepped aside, gesturing at the tower. “I’ve had food prepared.”

“Most kind of you.”

The tower interior had seen some recent and vigorous scrubbing but still retained the cloying, sweaty odour of men living in close proximity. She looked at the plain but copious array of food on the table before the fireplace, finding the seats bare of occupants, as was the rest of the chamber. “The guide?” she enquired of Sollis.

“This way, Highness.” He moved to a heavy door at the rear of the chamber, working a key in the large padlock on the handle. “We were obliged to quarter her downstairs.”

He hauled the door open, revealing a set of descending stone steps, lifting a torch from an iron brace on the wall. “If you would care to follow me.”

Lyrna turned back to Nersa and Jullsa. “Ladies, please remain here and partake of the meal the brothers have kindly provided. Lord Marshal, if you could attend me.”

She and Smolen followed Sollis down the winding steps to a small chamber, lit only by a narrow window inset with iron bars. A woman sat in shadow at the far end of the chamber, long legs clad in dark red leather protruding into the light, eyes glittering in the gloom. She stirred at the sight of Lyrna, shifting into a crouch, the chain around her ankle jangling on the stone floor.

“This is our guide?” she asked Sollis.

“It is, Highness.” The hardness of his expression as he stared at the shadowed woman told her much of his regard for this whole adventure. “Arrived two days ago with a note from the High Priestess herself. We gave her bed and board as ordered and that night she knifed one of my brothers in the thigh. I considered it prudent to confine her here.”

“Did she have cause to attack the brother?”

Sollis gave a small sigh of discomfort. “Seems he refused to assuage her . . . appetites. A terrible insult in Lonak society, apparently.”

Lyrna moved closer to the Lonak woman, Sollis keeping two paces ahead, hands loose at his sides. “You have a name?” she asked the woman.

“She doesn’t know Realm Tongue, Highness,” Sollis said. “Hardly any do. Learning our words sullies their soul.” He turned to the Lonak woman.
“Esk gorin ser?”

She ignored him, shuffling forward a little, her face becoming clear. It was smooth and angular with high cheekbones, her head almost entirely bald but for a long black braid protruding from the crown to snake down over her shoulder, a steel band shining on the end of it. She wore a sleeveless jerkin of thin leather, an intricate mazelike tattoo of green and red covering the skin from her left shoulder to her chin. Her gaze scanned Lyrna from head to toe, a slow smile coming to her lips. She said something in a rapid tumble of her own language.

“Ehkar!”
Sollis barked, stepping closer, glaring a threat.

The woman stared back and smiled wider, showing teeth that gleamed in the gloom.

“What did she say?” Lyrna asked.

Sollis gave another discomforted sigh. “She, erm, wants food, Highness.”

Lyrna’s Lonak had been learned from a book, the most comprehensive guide she could find in the Great Library. An aged master from the Third Order had tutored her in the various vowel sounds and subtle shifts of emphasis that could change the meaning of a word or a sentence. He had freely admitted his understanding of the wolfmen’s tongue was patchy and dulled with the years since he had journeyed north in his youth, gleaning knowledge from a few Lonak captives willing to talk in return for freedom. Nevertheless, Lyrna had sufficient command of the language to produce a rough translation of the woman’s words, but decided she would enjoy hearing the dutiful brother say it.

“Tell me exactly what she said, brother,” she commanded. “I must insist on it.”

Sollis coughed and spoke as tonelessly as possible. “When the men are on the hunt Lonak women look to each other for . . . nightly comforts. If you were of her clan, she’d want them to stay on the hunt for good.”

Lyrna turned to the Lonak woman and pursed her lips. “Really?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Kill her.”

The Lonak woman jerked back, the chain between her fists, ready to ward off a blow, eyes fixed on Sollis in readiness for combat, even though he hadn’t moved.

“It seems she speaks Realm Tongue after all,” Lyrna observed. “What’s your name?”

The woman scowled at her, then abruptly laughed, rising from her crouch. She was tall, standing an inch or two higher than both Sollis and Smolen in fact. “Davoka,” she said, raising her chin.

“Davoka,” Lyrna repeated softly.
Spear, in the archaic form.
“What are your instructions from the High Priestess?”

Davoka’s accent was thick but the words spoken with enough slow precision to be understood. “Take the Merim Her queen to the Mountain,” she said. “See she arrives whole and living.”

“I am a princess, not a queen.”

“A queen she said. A queen you are.” There was a certainty to the woman’s words that warned Lyrna further questioning on this point would be unwise. The meagre collection of works on Lonak history and culture in the Great Library had been vague and often contradictory, but they all agreed on one point: the words of the High Priestess were not to be questioned.

“If I release you, are you going to stab any more brothers, or make unseemly suggestions that insult their calling?”

Davoka cast a contemptuous glance at Sollis, muttering in her own language:
Wouldn’t sully my nethers with any of these limp-pricks.
“No,” she told Lyrna.

“Very well.” She nodded at Sollis. “She can join us for dinner.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Davoka sat at Lyrna’s side at dinner, having glared at Jullsa to make a space. The lady had blanched and excused herself from table, curtsying to Lyrna before rushing off to the chamber she and Nersa had been given.
I’ll send her home in the morning,
Lyrna decided.
Not so hardy as I hoped.
In contrast, Nersa seemed fascinated by Davoka, stealing glances over the table, earning a fierce glower or two in return.

“You serve the High Priestess?” Lyrna asked Davoka as the tall woman ate, slicing pieces of apple into her mouth with a narrow-bladed knife.

“All Lonak serve her,” Davoka replied around a mouthful.

“But you are of her household?”

Davoka barked a laugh. “House? Hah!” She finished her apple and tossed the core into the fireplace. “She has a mountain, not a house.”

Lyrna smiled and summoned up some patience. “But you have a role there?”

“I guard her. Only women guard her. Only women can be trusted. Men act crazy in her presence.”

Lyrna had read fanciful accounts of the supposed powers of the High Priestess. Noble-hearted men driven to insane passions by the merest glimpse, according to a somewhat lurid tome entitled
Blood Rites of the Lonak
. Whatever the truth of it, all the accounts pointed to a strong belief in her Dark powers. In truth, it was this, rather than her brother’s entreaties that had made her agree to this expedition.

Many years of study, quiet investigation, tortuous cross-referencing but still no evidence.
Look in the western quarter for the tale of the one-eyed man,
he said, that day he stole a kiss before the entire Summertide Fair. And she had. The tale, brought to her by the few servants she could trust to seek answers in the capital’s poorest quarter, had seemed absurd at first. One Eye was king of the outlaws and could bind men to him by will alone. One Eye drank the blood of his enemies to gain power. One Eye defiled children in dark rites conducted in the catacombs beneath the city. The only certainty to the tale was its end; One Eye had been killed by the Sixth Order, some said by Al Sorna himself. On this all the sources agreed, but on little else.

And so she kept looking, gathering accounts from all over the Realm. A girl who could call the wind in Nilsael, a boy who could talk with dolphins in South Tower, a man seen raising the dead in Cumbrael. A hundred or more fantastical tales, most of which turned out to be exaggeration, misunderstanding, gossip or outright lies on further investigation. No evidence. It maddened her, this absence of clarity, this lack of an answer, spurring her on, making her deepen her research, becoming a burden to the Lord Librarian with her constant demands for older and older books.

She knew much of this interest stemmed from the simple fact that she had little else to do. Her brother’s rule left her with no real place at court. He had a queen now, little Janus and Dirna to secure his line and a boundless supply of advisors. Malcius liked advice. The more the better, especially when one advisor contradicted another, which of course would require him to order the matter at hand be subject to further investigation, usually so thorough in nature it was several months before a conclusion had been reached and the matter had resolved itself or been superseded by more pressing affairs. In fact the only advice Malcius wouldn’t listen to was that offered by his sister.