Tower Lord

CHAPTER SIX

Lyrna

She started down into darkness, so black and absolute only the touch of her hands and feet on the stone could guide her, that and the terror-filled sobs of Davoka’s sister. She had ceased begging, voicing only whimpers and the occasional anguished howl as they descended, ever deeper. At first Lyrna thought the light an illusion born from her vision-starved mind, it was so faint, little more than a thin pinkish haze around Davoka’s tall form, but growing with every step. By the time they reached the bottom they were bathed in a deep red glow.

The chamber was huge, the circular floor, walls and ceiling paved in precisely measured slabs of marble. There were numerous openings in the walls, tall enough to walk through, black holes inviting oblivion. The red glow emanated from a large circular well in the centre of the chamber from which a column of thick steam ascended to an identical opening above.

Davoka dragged the weeping Kiral towards the well and Lyrna followed. The heat from the steam was too intense to allow them to approach closer than a dozen feet. Lyrna squinted, peering through the steam at the circle in the ceiling, seeing only the wet walls of a marble-tiled shaft ascending into the centre of the refashioned mountain above.

“There were great copper blades set into the lower shaft when we first came here.”

She stood in the entrance to one of the tunnels. A dark-haired woman, dressed in a plain robe of black cotton that left her arms bare, her skin painted a pale crimson in the glow from the well. “The shaft below was choked with rubble,” she went on, coming closer.

Kiral clutched at Davoka’s legs, whispering, “Please, sister! Pleeeaase!”

The young woman paid her no mind, stopping a short distance from Lyrna and offering a smile of welcome. “Three hundred feet below us an underground river meets a channel of Nishak’s blood, producing a constant rush of steam, ascending through the well to meet four blades arranged in a cross, suspended from a great iron rod that reached up to the third level of the tower above. A curious mystery, wouldn’t you say?”

Watching her face as she spoke, Lyrna was struck by the surety in it, the confidence exuded by a woman of such youth, speaking Realm Tongue with no trace of an accent, her gaze level and only mildly curious.

“The steam would make the blades turn,” Lyrna said. “Like a windmill.”

The young woman’s smile broadened. “Yes. Sadly, such novelties were lost on the Lonakhim who first set eyes on this place and the blades were destined to become much-needed pots and pans, the great iron rod melted down for hatchet blades. It was only when I ordered the stone cleared from the well that the purpose of the blades became clear. After every renewal I promise myself I will order the fashioning of new blades, for I would dearly love to see them turn once more, but I never do.” Her gaze shifted to the cowering girl at Davoka’s feet. “There is always a fresh distraction, after all.”

“What was it for?” Lyrna asked. “The power harnessed by the blades?”

“That is an unanswerable question. The rod ended in a great cog, whatever it turned gone to dust centuries ago. Though, I suspect it had something to do with heating the carved mountain that stands above us.”

She stood regarding Kiral’s trembling form in silence for a moment, then raised her gaze to Davoka, speaking in Lonak, “This is your sister’s body?”

“It is, Mahlessa.”

“If I return her, she will be . . . changed. And not just with scars. You understand this?”

“I do, Mahlessa. I know my sister’s heart. She would wish to return to us, whatever the cost.”

The Mahlessa gave a small nod. “As you wish. Bring her.”

“No!” Kiral shrieked, trying to crawl away. Davoka hauled her upright, forcing her towards the well.

“You think this thing fears me,” the Mahlessa said to Lyrna. “You are mistaken. What it fears is the punishment that will greet its failure when I return it to the void.”

Kiral screamed and begged in a constant babble of fear, she thrashed, she spat, she cursed. It did no good. Davoka forced her to the edge of the well, sweat bathing them both. The Mahlessa moved to stand next to Kiral and Lyrna saw not a bead of sweat on her skin. She reached out to pick up a bottle sitting on the edge of the well. It was small, the glass cloudy, a dark liquid just visible inside.

“Her hand,” the Mahlessa told Davoka, pulling the stopper from the bottle. Lyrna saw a wisp of vapour rise from it and a foul stench assailed her nostrils. Davoka drew her knife and severed the binding on Kiral’s wrists, forcing one arm behind her back and extending the other to the Mahlessa.

“For all the misery and sorrow sown by these things,” she said to Lyrna, reaching out to caress Kiral’s hand, fingers tracing over the skin of the spasming fist, the girl’s screams now hoarse grunts from a ravaged throat. “You would think their number legion, but there have never been more than three. This one is the youngest, female when she was first snared and twisted, only capable of taking female shells and then no more than one at a time until death releases her. Also not so skilled in her deceit. Her brother is more accomplished, able to control several shells at once regardless of gender, living for years behind the masks without arousing the suspicion of even those who loved them from birth. Her sister, well, let’s just say it would be best if you never met her. Century upon century of murder and deceit, weaving their skein of discord throughout the world, now seeking to bring their master’s great scheme to fruition. Only three, snared by the depth of their own malice. But from where does malice spring? If not from fear . . . and pain.”

She lifted the bottle and poured a single drop of liquid onto Kiral’s hand.

The vastness of the pain and fury erupting from the girl’s throat was enough for Lyrna to close her eyes and fight down a wave of nausea. Weeks of threat and repeated exposure to the sight of violent death may have hardened her, but the sheer inhuman ugliness of this sound cut through her new-grown callus like a healer’s scalpel. When she looked again the girl was on her knees, her face clasped between the Mahlessa’s hands, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Pain is just the door,” the Mahlessa said. “Fear is the lever, the tool that scrapes away the filth infecting this girl’s mind, latched onto her gift like a leech.” Kiral shuddered, gibberish issuing from her lips amidst a cloud of spittle. “For even this thing fears true oblivion, and if it stays to face me, I will rend it to nothing.”

Kiral sagged, eyes closing, falling free of the Mahlessa’s grip, cradled by Davoka, a steaming red-black sore covering the back of her right hand.

Lyrna swallowed bile and went to press her fingers against the girl’s neck, finding the pulse strong.

“How . . . how long?” the voice behind her was thin, choked with confusion and sorrow.

Lyrna looked up and saw that the Mahlessa had vanished, the confident young woman replaced by a fearful girl, staring at her in confusion, slender arms hugging herself tight. The same face, the same slender form, but a different soul.

“Mahlessa?” Lyrna asked, rising and moving to her.

The girl uttered a sound that was part sigh and part laugh, just a pitch below hysteria, her eyes finding the bottle in her hand. “Yes, oh yes. I am the Mahlessa. Great and terrible is my power . . .” She faltered to silence with a mirthless giggle.

“Five summers,” Davoka said. “Since the renewal.”

“Five summers.” The girl’s gaze roamed over Lyrna, taking in her hair before looking directly into her eyes. “The Merim Her queen. She’s been waiting for you, such a long time. So many visions . . .” Her hand came up to caress Lyrna’s cheek. “Such beauty . . . Such a shame . . . What does it feel like?”

“Mahlessa?”

“To have killed so many. You see, I only killed my mother . . .”

Then she was gone, the face of a scared girl abruptly replaced by ageless surety, her hand falling from Lyrna’s face as she retreated.

“What did she tell you?” the Mahlessa asked.

Lyrna forced herself not to retreat further, though the spiral stairs now appeared very inviting. You wanted evidence, she reminded herself. Here it is.

“She said she killed her mother,” she replied, striving to keep the tremor from her voice.

“Ah yes, a sad story. A beautiful young girl, kindly and possessed of the healing touch, but also quite mad, murderously so. It’s always the way with the healing touch, some facet of its power works to unhinge the mind. Every gift has its price. In this case the persistent delusion that her mother was possessed by Jeshak, the hating god. Having killed her mother, of course there was no place for her in her clan. They wouldn’t kill her because of her gift, for all Lonakhim know that the gifted can only be judged by the Mahlessa. She wandered the mountains until Davoka found her and brought her to me. The perfect vessel, one of my finest in fact. Though she does have a tendency to get loose more often than her predecessors.”

She returned to Kiral’s side, reaching down to clasp her ravaged hand. The girl spasmed, coming awake with a jerk, trying to pull away as Davoka held her. “I . . . sister?” Her eyes found Davoka’s face. “I . . . was cold.”

The Mahlessa released her hand and Lyrna was unable to contain the gasp that rose from her chest. It was healed, the red-black sore gone, the skin still showing some faint scars, but whole once again. Evidence.

“It does drain one so,” the Mahlessa said, flexing her own hand, a crease appearing in her smooth brow. “More than any other gift. Perhaps that’s where the madness comes from, the loss of self with every healing.” She rose once more and stepped back, addressing Davoka, “Alturk is here?”

“He is, Mahlessa.”

“A lost and broken man, no doubt. A Tahlessa without a clan. It may be kinder to allow him to throw himself into the Mouth of Nishak.”

“I owe Alturk a great debt . . .” Lyrna began but the Mahlessa just waved a dismissive hand.

“Have no fear, my Queen. He’s far too valuable to waste indulging his self-pity.” Her gaze lingered on Kiral’s still-confused face as she addressed Davoka once again. “Ten centuries of life teaches me the folly of discarding insight gained from a hard lesson. The thing that took your sister was wise enough to play on the history of the Lonakhim; the legend of the Sentar is enduring, and appealing. You will tell Alturk he is now the Tahlessa Sentar, the true Sentar, blessed by the true Mahlessa. He will go forth from here, scouring every clan for their finest warriors. They will number one thousand, no more, no less. They will not hunt, they will not feud, they will only train for war and fight at my command.”

Davoka gave a solemn nod. “Mahlessa, I beg a place in the Sentar. I will be your eyes, your voice to the thousand . . .”

The Mahlessa shook her head with a smile. “No, my bright spear, I have a greater mission for you.” She turned to Lyrna once again. “Though you may consider it more a curse. Take your sister above, she will need to rest. The queen and I must talk further.”

Davoka gently pulled Kiral to her feet, the girl staring about her in a blend of wonder and fear, which only deepened when her gaze found Lyrna. “She saw it,” she whispered, drawing back. “She heard it . . . She knew . . .”

“Calm now, little cat,” Davoka soothed her. “This is Lerhnah, Queen of the Merim Her. She is a friend to us.”

Kiral swallowed, looking down at the tiled floor, guilt replacing fear. “It wanted her . . . Wanted to hurt her, worse than all the others . . . I felt the want . . .”

Lyrna went to her, placing a hand under her chin and lifting it. “I know it was not your want,” she said. “Your sister is my sister too, and so I will be yours.”

Kiral stared at her with an expression close to awe. “It feared you . . . That’s why it wanted to hurt you so much . . . You were new . . . Unexpected . . . No ilvarek had revealed your nature . . .”

Ilvarek . . . The word had an archaic inflection, and was similar to the Lonak word for sight, or vision, but spoken with a gravitas that gave Lyrna pause. “Ilvarek, I do not know this word.”

“Take your sister above, Davoka,” the Mahlessa said again, her voice soft but carrying an unmistakable note of command.

Davoka nodded and led Kiral to the spiral steps, the girl whispering as she ascended. “When it slept I saw its nightmares . . . It strangled its own baby . . .”

“Allow me to show you something,” the Mahlessa said as Kiral’s voice faded. “Something only Lonakhim eyes have ever seen.”

The darkness in the tunnel proved less absolute than Lyrna had expected, the walls possessed of a faint green luminescence providing enough light for them to make their way without the aid of a torch. “It’s a kind of powder found in the western hills,” the Mahlessa explained. “Possessed of an inner light that never fades. Carried here in great quantities and painted onto the walls by whoever carved the Mountain. Ingenious, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Lyrna agreed. “Almost as ingenious as you, Mahlessa?”

There was a pause and she knew the woman was smiling. “How so?”

“A trap is not a trap without bait. My mission here, at your invitation, was an irresistible target for that thing you just banished, as I’m sure you knew it would be.”

“Indeed I did.”

“Good men and women died to get me here. Your people and mine.”

“Good men and women die all the time. So do the bad ones. Surely it’s better to die with a purpose.”

“But far better to live with one.”

“A choice we do not always get to make. Take my people for example, they did not choose for the Merim Her to descend upon our shores like a plague. They did not choose to be hunted like animals for three decades. They did not choose to carve out a home amidst the frozen mountains with the pitiful remnants of what strength was left them.” Lyrna was struck by the absence of anger in the Mahlessa’s words, her tone light and conversational, as if they were two ladies at court discussing the finer points of one of Alucius’s poems.

“I cannot account for the crimes of my ancestors,” she said, her own tone less than conversational. “But I will have to account for the lives lost in pursuit of the peace you offered. My lady Nersa’s parents will find scant comfort in the knowledge that their daughter died in service to your purpose.”

A laugh, very soft, very slight. “I suspect they have little time left for grief or comfort. None of us do.”

She stopped as the tunnel ended, opening out in a huge circular chamber, as least three times the size of the one they had left. There was no well here, the only illumination coming from the green-glowing powder painted onto the floor and ceiling, much brighter than in the tunnel, bright enough to read by in fact. Curiously, whilst the floor and ceiling were bright the walls were dark. Also the air was dry, carrying a faint musty tinge.

“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren,” the Mahlessa said, stepping into the chamber and raising her arms. “I bid you welcome to the memory of the Lonakhim.”

Books, Lyrna realised following her into the chamber, her eyes roaming over the walls, stacked floor to ceiling with countless books and scrolls. She found herself drawn to them immediately. Some were massive, giant tomes requiring many arms to lift, others tiny enough to fit into the palm of her hand. She lifted the nearest volume, only dimly aware that it may have been diplomatic to ask permission first. It was leather-bound, with an intricate design etched into the cover, and, despite its age, the pages were intact and pliant enough to turn easily instead of cracking to dust. The script they held was beautifully rendered, illuminated with gold leaf and coloured inks, but completely indecipherable.

“The Wisdoms of Reltak,” the Mahlessa said. “His only philosophical work. He’s usually more concerned with astronomy. The first Lonakhim scholar to calculate the circumference of the moon. Though Arkiol argues he was out by about twenty feet.”

Lyrna raised her gaze from the book, frowning at the word “scholar” being used in conjunction with “Lonakhim.”

“Oh yes,” the Mahlessa said. “We were not all warriors once. Before your people came, whilst the Seordah wandered their forests, losing themselves in communion with the earth, my people studied, we observed, we crafted great works, we wrote great verse. What you see here is only a fragment, the salvaged remains of our achievement. If we had been left alone, another century perhaps, even the mysteries of this mountain would have been within our grasp. Sadly, for all our wisdom, we never discovered how to smelt iron. A small thing, you might think, but wars are often decided by small things.”

“Did you know him?” Lyrna asked, holding up the book.

The Mahlessa laughed and shook her head. “Even I am not that old. Though I did make the acquaintance of one of his descendants, a many-times-great-grandson. I watched him starve to death during the travail.”

Lyrna returned the book to the stacks. “Who were you, before?”

“Just a girl who had too many nightmares. I still do. I’m looking at one of them right now.” There was no humour now, just serious scrutiny and keen intellect. It had been many years since Lyrna had met an equal, a soul as attuned to nuance and deceit as she was. She was shamed by it, the deaths of so many still weighed on her, but this moment made her grateful for the journey that had brought her here. To look into a face that saw all of her, no need or opportunity for concealment, no charm or tears to deflect unwelcome insight, no prospect of manipulation, just cold reason and the weight of history packed into these books. The novelty of it was a guilty delight.

“Ilvarek,” she said. “A vision. That’s what it means.”

“The closest translation in your language is ‘scrying.’ You know this word?”

“A Dark ability to peer into the future.”

“I do not peer. The future stares at me and I stare back, and when I do I see you.”

“And what am I doing?”

The Mahlessa’s expression clouded. “One of two things.” She moved to a scroll perched atop a stack of books, lifting it and holding it out to Lyrna. “This is for you.”

“A gift?”

“A treaty. The war between our peoples is over. Please accept my congratulations on successfully negotiating this peace.”

Lyrna went to her and took the scroll, unfurling it to find two blocks of finely scribed text, the one above in Realm Tongue, the other in the same alien script as the book. “There are no terms,” she said. “Just a statement that the conflict between us is ended.”

“What more would you want?”

“It’s customary for us to squabble over borders, tributes and such.”

“Borders are always changing, and I’ll take your role in bringing down the false Mahlessa as more than sufficient tribute, one I’ll reward with a gift. You wear a knife do you not?”

Lyrna’s hand went to the chain about her neck. “A trinket only. It poses no threat. I can’t even throw it properly.”

“Not yet.” The Mahlessa held out her hand, Lyrna noticed she still held the small bottle in her other hand. “Give it to me.”

Kiral’s scream and the stench of the bottle’s contents were still vivid, so Lyrna hesitated before lifting the chain over her head and placing the knife in the Mahlessa’s open palm.

“You wonder what this is,” she said, taking hold of the knife by the handle and lifting the bottle until it was poised over the blade. “The Lonak scholars were not just poets and mathematicians, they were also chemists. Centuries ago they concocted a substance that would produce the most pure and absolute pain a human can endure and still live, though only if a tiny amount is used.” She tipped the bottle and a single drop of dark viscous liquid fell onto the blade, the foul vapour rising again, making Lyrna step back and cover her nose. The liquid spread across the steel, the vapour fading, then seemed to disappear, like water seeping into cloth.

“Here.” The Mahlessa held the knife out to Lyrna. “It wont hurt you. When mixed with steel it only comes to life if it touches blood.”

“Why would I need such a thing?” Lyrna asked, making no move to take the knife.

“To do one of the two things I see you do.”

It was clear she would say no more on the subject. Tentatively, Lyrna reached out and touched a finger to the knife, feeling only cool metal.

“Never be without it,” the Mahlessa said as Lyrna took the knife and pulled the chain over her head.

“I will always keep it, in any case,” Lyrna replied. “It’s the only gift I’ve ever cherished.”

The Mahlessa’s gaze remained serious but there was surprise there too. “You are not what I was expecting. The ilvarek painted a very different picture.”

“Was I taller?” Lyrna asked with a small laugh.

“No, you were ambitious. You cared nothing for the lives lost reaching this place, just more pieces on your Keschet board. This meeting was to have made you furious, the truth of the ilvarek provoking hatred, making you swear vile retribution and tear up the treaty you hold in your hands. Something has changed in you, Lyrna Al Nieren. Was it guilt I wonder, some crime committed out of the ilvarek’s sight? So terrible the guilt forged a new facet to your soul.”

Father I beg you . . . “I’d hazard,” Lyrna said, “there are more crimes in your ledger than mine.”

“Ensuring the survival of my people compelled me to terrible acts, it is true. I have lied, I have corrupted, I have tortured and I have killed. And every crime I would commit again a thousand times to secure the same end. Remember this, Queen, when you watch the flames rise high, remember this and ask yourself: would I do this again?”

She moved closer, lifting the book Lyrna had examined and holding it out to her. “Removing even the smallest scrap from this place is punishable by death, but for you I think I can make an allowance. The meditations on divinity are particularly interesting. Reltak has much to say on the folly of dogma.”

“I can’t read it.”

“I think we both know a translation is well within your abilities. The Lonakhim text in the treaty will provide sufficient clues, I’m sure. And my bright spear will be there to help. She reads very well.”

“Davoka?”

“It is customary for nations at peace to exchange ambassadors, is it not? She will be mine.”

“Her . . . diplomacy will be very welcome. I shall of course arrange for a suitably qualified Realm official to present himself here as soon as possible.”

“As you wish, there’s no hurry. Just make sure you send a woman, unless you want your ambassador to gift me your Realm in its entirety.”

“Men are so easily captured by your beauty?”

“No, by the gift of a woman who died three centuries ago. Oddly, it only works on men.”

Lyrna took the book. “I regret I have nothing to offer in return.”

The Mahlessa’s scrutiny faded to an aspect of sombre reflection. “You are the gift,” she said. “Confirmation that it has all been for something.” She held out her hand and Lyrna took it. “They come, Queen, they come to tear it all down. Your world and mine. Look to the beast charmer when chains bind you.”

“Mahlessa?”

But she was gone again, replaced once more by the fearful girl, her hand trembling in Lyrna’s grasp, head cocked, eyes looking into hers with desperate fear. “How does it feel?” she asked and Lyrna realised she was repeating her question from before, unaware of time having passed since.

“I have killed no-one,” Lyrna told her.

“Oh . . .” Her eyes roamed Lyrna’s face. “No . . . Not there yet . . . But they will be.”

“What will?”

The girl smiled, teeth bright in the green glow. “The marks of your greatness.”

She made her way back to the steam chamber then up the spiral steps to the surface. She had lingered for more than an hour, asking question after question. “Who is the master the Mahlessa spoke of? What is his scheme? Who is coming to bring it all down?”

The fearful girl’s answers were no more than a jumble of confusion and riddle. “He waits in the void . . . He hungers . . . Oh how he hungers . . . My mother said I was the kindliest soul ever to grace the Lonakhim, I cut her throat with my father’s knife . . .”

After a while her rambling faded to silence and she slumped to the floor, listless, eyes vacant. Lyrna waited a while longer for the Mahlessa to return, but knew instinctively it wouldn’t happen. We will never meet again.

She sighed and touched the girl on the shoulder. “Did you earn a name?”

“Helsa,” the girl replied in a whisper. Healer, or saviour in the archaic form, depending on the inflection.

“I’m glad to have met you, Helsa.”

“Will you come to see me again?”

“I hope so, one day.”

This brought a smile, slipping from her lips as the vacant stare returned to her eyes. Lyrna squeezed her shoulder and returned to the tunnel. She didn’t turn for a final look, the sadness was too great.

She found the brothers and Smolen waiting for her when she returned to the surface. They were alone, the women who had greeted them gone to whatever duties the Mahlessa ordained.

“Alturk?” she asked Sollis.

“He left, Highness. Davoka spoke to him and he left.”

“Didn’t even say good-bye,” Ivern commented. “I was hurt.”

“Davoka?” Lyrna asked.

“Off caring for her sister somewhere,” the young brother said. “They’ve given us rooms the next level up.”

Lyrna nodded, looking down at the scroll in her hand.

“Your mission was a success, Highness?” Smolen ventured.

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “A great success. Rest well tonight, good sirs. We leave for the Realm come the dawn.”

The journey back to the Skellan Pass took the better part of two weeks, Davoka choosing an easier but longer route than the varied paths that brought them to the Mountain. Lyrna had offered to take Kiral with them but the Lonak woman refused. “Better cared for at the Mountain.”

“But you only just got her back,” Lyrna objected. “Don’t you want to stay a while? You can join me at court at any time.”

Davoka shook her head. “The Mahlessa commands,” was all she said.

In the evenings they would collaborate in translating The Wisdoms of Reltak, although Davoka found his verses somewhat troubling. “‘Divinity retains the appearance of insight,’” she read one evening, brows creased with a deep frown. “‘When in reality it celebrates ignorance. Its tenets are so much clay, and when the clay sets, it becomes dogma.’”

She looked at Lyrna over the top of the volume. “I don’t like this book.”

“Really? I find it rather charming.”

In the mornings Davoka would tutor her with the throwing knife, something they had neglected on the journey north. Brother Ivern soon joined in, finding a thin but broad piece of wood to use as a target. Sometimes he would toss it into the air, sending his own knives into the centre with a disconcerting speed and accuracy.

“I was always the best at toss-board,” he said. “Won more knives than any novice brother my age. Only Frentis could hope to match me.”

Frentis. A name Lyrna knew, her brother had spoken it many times. “You knew Brother Frentis?”

“We were in the same group at the Order House, Highness.”

“The King praises his courage highly. He said Untesh would have fallen on the first day if not for Brother Frentis.”

Ivern gave a sad smile. “That sounds like him. After the Test of the Sword he was sent to the Wolfrunners and I was sent here. I’m ashamed to say I was jealous, thinking him the lucky one.”

As the days passed she began to improve with the knife, finding the target with greater frequency, seeing the truth in Davoka’s words: Throw again . . . Again and again until you hit. Then you know how.

On the last morning, with the pass only one day’s ride away, as Ivern’s board fell to earth with her knife embedded in the centre, she could finally say she knew how.

Their return to the pass was greeted with some celebration and no small amount of surprise. The garrison had grown with the addition of a full regiment of Realm Guard cavalry, ordered by the King to venture into the Lonak Dominion in search of her. Fortunately, they had arrived the day before and preparations for their unwise expedition were far from complete.

“But you were attacked, Highness,” the regiment’s Lord Marshal objected when she told him to be ready to escort her south the next day. “Surely, the savages require some punishment. I would consider it an honour . . .”

She held up the scroll. “We are now at peace with the Lonak, my lord. Besides, the only punishment you’ll find north of the pass will be your own.”

Her gaze was drawn to Brother Sollis, noting the way he straightened as he received news from one of his brothers. He caught her eye and came over. “Tidings from the Realm, Highness. It seems there was an attempt on the life of Tower Lord Al Bera. He lives but is grievously wounded. Witnesses lay the blame on Cumbraelin fanatics.”

Lyrna stifled a groan. End one war and there’s another brewing at home. “What has the King commanded?”

“The Battle Lord musters the Realm Guard with orders to root out the fanatics. Fief Lord Mustor has been ordered to render assistance but whether his people will do so is another matter.”

“I see. Then I had best not linger. Lord Marshal, we leave within the hour.”

The Lord Marshal bowed and strode away, shouting orders. Lyrna turned back to Sollis. “It seems our farewell must be brief, brother. I know there is no gift or favour I can offer that you will accept, so I can only offer my thanks, for my life and the success of this mission.”

“It was . . . an interesting journey.” He hesitated. “There were other tidings, Highness. Lord Al Sorna has returned to the Realm.”

Vaelin . . . “Returned?” She heard the shrillness in her voice and coughed. “How?”

“The Emperor released him, apparently in gratitude for some heroic service. The details are a little vague. He arrived at Varinshold some weeks ago. It seems he has left our Order. King Malcius sent him to the Northern Reaches, as Tower Lord.”

The Northern Reaches . . . For once her foolish brother had made the right move, although she found herself wishing he had waited a little before making it. “Please thank Brother Ivern for me,” she told Sollis. “Convey my regrets I have no more kisses to offer.”

“I think one was more than enough, Highness.”

“Where will you go?” she asked. “Now there is no-one here for you to fight.”

“I go where my Aspect commands, Highness. And there’s always someone else to fight.” He gave a bow lower than any he had offered before, straightened and turned to walk towards the squat tower at the south end of the pass.

A Realm Guard sergeant hurried up to her, leading a fine grey mare. “The Lord Marshal offers you this gift, Highness,” the man said, holding out the reins. “From his own stables.”

Lyrna turned to scratch the nose of her pony. She had taken to calling him Surefoot in recent days, something Davoka seemed to find amusing and baffling in equal measure; the Lonak did not name animals they might have to slaughter for meat in the winter months. “I have a mount, sergeant,” she said, climbing onto the saddle, feeling the now-familiar bones of Surefoot’s back. “Shall we be off?”

In Cardurin cheering people thronged the streets, bunting decorated the myriad bridges between the tall buildings and townsfolk cast flowers along her path through the city. When she reached the main square the city factor made a florid and somewhat long speech praising her as a peacemaker and deliverer. “Anything Your Highness commands, this city will provide,” he finished, with an elaborate bow.

Lyrna shifted a little on Surefoot’s back as the crowd fell to expectant silence. “A bath, sir,” she said. “I should very much like a bath.”

So she bathed in a suite of rooms at the factor’s mansion, twice, and chose clothes provided by the city’s finest dressmakers whilst Davoka looked on with a wary scowl. “Can’t ride in those,” she said. “Or fight.”

“I’m hoping my riding and fighting days are over,” Lyrna replied. “This one,” she said to the serving girl, pointing at a long gown of dark blue chiffon and discarding her bathrobe. The girl gasped and looked away, blushing furiously. “Never seen a queen’s tits before,” Lyrna explained to a puzzled Davoka.

She put on the dress and stood before a long mirror, taking satisfaction from the way it complimented her figure, though it was looser around the waist than she would have liked, the consequence of so many days in the saddle she supposed. She paused at the sight of her face, half expecting the journey to have left some mark on her, some hardening or weathering to her features, but saw only the same face she had always seen, except . . . Was there something new in the set of her eyes? An openness that hadn’t been there before?

“You are . . . v-very beautiful, Highness,” the serving girl stammered, having recovered enough wit for flattery.

“Thank you,” Lyrna said with one of her best smiles. “Please lay out the riding gown for the morning and pack these others for me.”

She spent a few hours at the banquet the factor had convened in her honour, sitting through more speeches from various town notables and suffering the inane chatter of their wives. The only oratory she offered was a reading of the Mahlessa’s scroll, which she ordered be copied and sent to every corner of the Realm. From the speeches and conversation it was clear these people saw her as more a victor than a peacemaker, as if she had won a great battle rather than merely survive a perilous journey to return with a piece of parchment. Watching the laughing, and increasingly drunken faces around her, she found herself pondering the Mahlessa’s words. They come, Queen, to tear it all down . . . Your world and mine.

She sighed into her wine cup. Now I have the evidence, what to do with it?

They moved on the next morning, though the town factor had been vociferous in his entreaties that she stay a little longer. “Your greatness enriches our city, Highness.” Judging by the gifts they had attempted to bestow on her and the scale of the ongoing celebrations, Lyrna thought it more likely they would bankrupt themselves if she lingered another day. She did accept one thing, a copy of the Mahlessa’s scroll, inscribed on velum and illuminated with an image of her astride Surefoot as she arrived at the gates of the city, scroll in hand. Apparently the Scribes Guild had worked on it through the night and the ink was barely dry.

They were two days south of Cardurin when one of the Lord Marshal’s scouts galloped up with news she had been dreading with every southward step. “Fief Lord Darnel comes to greet her Highness, my lord.”

“An enemy, Queen?” Davoka asked, seeing Lyrna’s sudden tension.

“You remember the man I told you about?”

Davoka nodded as a line of horsemen appeared on the horizon. “He comes?”

“No, his opposite.”

Fief Lord Darnel had lost none of his good looks in the years since their last meeting, a blessedly brief exchange of greetings at her brother’s coronation. He wore no helm but was otherwise fully clad in armour inlaid with intricate blue enamel, riding an all-black stallion, long dark hair streaming back from his finely sculpted face, every inch the lordly knight. Nobility is a lie, her father had once told her. A pretence that high standing comes from anything more than money or martial prowess. Any dolt can play the noble, and as you’ll discover in time, daughter, it’s mostly dolts who do.

“Princess!” Lord Darnel exclaimed, reining to a halt and dismounting to fall to one knee. Behind him his retinue of more than fifty knights did the same. “I bid you welcome to Renfael. Forgive my failure to offer you a suitable welcome, but word of your coming only reached me yesterday.”

“Fief Lord,” Lyrna replied. She gestured at Davoka. “May I present, the . . . Lady Davoka, Ambassadress of the Lonak Dominion.”

Darnel rose from his bow, squinting up at the Lonak woman with a poorly concealed grimace of distaste. “So it’s true then? The savages have finally yielded.”

Lyrna saw Davoka’s hand tighten on the haft of her spear and was sorely tempted to let her act on her anger. The stories about Darnel’s actions during the fall of Marbellis were well-known, and none of them flattering.

“Nothing has been yielded,” Lyrna told him. “We have agreed a peace. That is all.”

“A pity. They always made such good sport. The first man I killed was a Lonak, if you could call such as him a man.”

“I can’t let you kill him,” Lyrna told Davoka as her spear began to lower.

“You learned their tongue?” Darnel said with a laugh. “Such accomplishment in one so lovely . . .”

“Did you have other business, my lord?” Lyrna cut in. “We have many miles to cover, and the King awaits my safe return.”

“There was a matter of some import, if we could talk alone for a moment.”

She was tempted to refuse but the lack of civility already on display was making a poor show in front of so many Realm Guard and knights. “Very well.” She dismounted, murmuring to Davoka in Lonak, “Don’t stray too far.”

They walked a short distance from the ranks of horsemen, Lyrna all too aware of so many eyes taking in the scene. “There is one in this fief,” Darnel began, “who plots against my Lordship, speaking falsehoods, impugning my honour at every turn. I think you would agree, Highness, that treason against me is tantamount to treason against the crown.”

Lyrna avoided providing an affirmation, answering with a question, “And who is this malcontent?”

Darnel’s mouth twisted around the word. “Banders!”

“Baron Hughlin Banders? The most beloved knight in Renfael, and one of the few captains to return from the Alpiran war with any vestige of honour. This is the man you would name a traitor?”

“I would rule my fief in the King’s name, as ordained by the tenets that bind this Realm in unity.”

How could a man see so much and change so little? she wondered. It was still there, everything that had made her discount her father’s wishes in a heartbeat, in his face, his stance; the ingrained assumption of right, the knowledge of his own brilliance. What a dreadful child he must have been . . . and still is. “This is a free Realm,” she pointed out. “And all may voice their thoughts without fear of persecution.”

“Not when such thoughts amount to sedition. The man holds court, Highness. Lords and commons go to him for counsel, though he holds no position in this fief. A beggar knight in fact.”

“A beggar you would kill, my lord? Hardly a knightly ambition.”

“Despite the lies you may have heard about me, I am not without mercy. Exile seems the most just sentence.”

Also, the least likely to raise the commons against you. Darnel’s display of cunning annoyed her; she preferred him as a dolt.

“Exile and forfeiture of property,” the Fief Lord added. “I will of course, make provision for any dependents.”

There was a weight to these last words that gave her pause. Not just revenge on an old adversary, she decided. He wants more. “I will bring your concerns to the King,” she said, turning away. “Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”

“Only my undying love.”

The sincerity in his voice was disturbing, as was the intensity in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed before how darkly blue they were. Another place, another man, she might have found reason to linger in the sight of such eyes, but here she just wanted to mount her pony and ride away as fast as possible.

“That matter was settled . . .” she began, keeping her voice low.

“Not for me.” He stepped closer and she could tell he was resisting the impulse to reach for her. “Not for one day since. Have you never wondered why I remain unmarried? Why I strive every day to keep the King’s peace though justice cries out for me to gather my retainers and burn Banders’s holdfast down around him? Him and every other ungrateful wretch in this fief. For you, Lyrna. So that you might see me . . .”

“I’ve seen you,” she said, voice hard and flat. “And I’ve seen enough.”

His jaws clenched as he looked down, his voice thin but deep in regret. “That is your final word?”

“My final word regarding you was spoken to my father eight years ago, and I see no reason to speak another.”

When he raised his face the sincerity of his affection remained, albeit dimmed by anger. “If your brother had died at Untesh, you would be queen now. It must have been very affecting to see him return safely home.”

“I assure you, if my brother had perished, you would have been on the first ship back to the empire, presented in chains to account for your crimes.”

“Crimes?” He laughed, harsh and short. “You talk of crimes, as if war is a game, as if rules mean anything in a slaughter, as if they have ever mattered for us, Lyrna. I see you.” He came closer still, dark eyes intent and questing. “I see you, the face you hide from the court and the commons. But I see it, because I see it in me, and I see everything we could be. A union between us would see the whole world at our feet in a decade.”

“When did it happen?”

He frowned. “Highness?”

“When madness supplanted mere cruelty.”

His face froze as if she had struck him, a rigid fury seizing him from head to toe. Davoka’s pony gave a loud snort as she walked him within a spear throw of the Fief Lord.

“I believe,” Darnel grated, “Al Sorna has returned to the Realm, and no longer enjoys the protection of the Sixth Order. A challenge can be made and accepted. Tell me, would you prefer his head or his heart as a tribute?”

“It is my fervent hope, my lord, that you make such a challenge. Then I’ll be able to choose my tribute from whatever remains of you. Perhaps I’ll send it to Marbellis as a small token of recompense.”

He stood still for a moment, frozen in his anger, face quivering before he mastered himself. “I should like, Highness,” he said, his voice a soft rasp, “for you to remember the words you have said to me today. I should like you to remember them for a very long time.”

“Then I regret to tell you, my lord, that I intend to forget them just as soon as you are out of my sight. A circumstance I expect you to bring about forthwith.”

He could refuse, she had no power to command him. She could only expect. It was usually enough, but would it suffice for this handsome madman?

He closed his eyes, breathing softly, a faint whisper coming from his lips, “Faith save me, but I had to try.” When he opened his eyes there was no more anger, not even any cruelty, just numb acceptance. He gave a bow, formal and correct in every way, turned to march back to his horse, mounting and riding away without another word.

“Send me after him,” Davoka said, watching Darnel and his knights crest a rise and disappear from view. “It’ll be done tonight. His heart stops when he sleeps. No blame will arise.”

“No,” Lyrna said, walking back to Surefoot.

“I know men like him, Lerhnah. I’ve killed enough to know them very well. That one won’t stop until he’s made you bleed.”

Lyrna mounted the pony, meeting Davoka’s eyes and giving a firm shake of her head. The Lonak woman gritted her teeth but said no more.

“Lord Marshal Al Smolen,” Lyrna called, the Guard commander quickly riding to her side with a smart salute. “A change of course, my lord. We make for the holdfast of House Banders.”