Tower Lord

CHAPTER ONE

Reva

“I will not wear that.”

The Lady Veliss smiled, holding the pale blue dress up as Reva backed away. “But it complements your hair so,” she said. “At least try it on.”

“Where are my own clothes?” Reva demanded.

“Burned, I hope. Such rags are hardly fit for the niece of the Fief Lord.”

“Then leave me as I am.” She wore a plain cotton shift left by the maid who had brought breakfast. Her uncle’s guards had brought her to this room the night before, the manor in an uproar as Veliss commanded every room and closet searched for more intruders. Reva had little awareness of the commotion, dazed by a welter of despair and grief that left her drained, capable only of stumbling along as she was bade, deaf to any question. Kill her, the priest had said. Kill her . . .

The room held a large bed onto which she had collapsed almost immediately, curling up to hug her knees, hating the tears flowing down her face. Kill her . . . The sleep that claimed her had been dreamless and absolute. When she awoke she was naked beneath the bedclothes and a maid was placing a breakfast tray on the dressing table as a guard stood by the door. She had never imagined she would be so senseless as to allow herself to be undressed without waking.

Veliss’s eyes tracked over her with unabashed admiration. “I should love to. But I think your uncle would appreciate a tad more modesty.” She tossed the dress onto the bed and continued to stare at Reva, a faint smile curling her full lips.

“You are unseemly,” Reva muttered, reaching for the dress.

Veliss laughed a little, turning to the door. “A guard will escort you down when you’re ready.”

Her uncle was in his garden, seated at a small table amidst the topiary in company with a bottle of wine, already three-quarters empty although Reva judged the hour as somewhere past the ninth bell. Lying next to the bottle was the sword she had stolen the night before. The Lady Veliss stood nearby, reading from a scroll.

“My brave niece!” The Fief Lord’s smile was broad and warm as he rose to greet her. She allowed herself to be embraced, grimacing a little at the stain of wine on his breath as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“How did you know my name?” she asked as he drew back.

“Ah, so your grandparents named you for her.” He returned to the table, gesturing at the empty chair. “I’m glad.”

“Grandparents?” she asked, staying on her feet, casting her gaze around the gardens. So many guards.

“Yes.” He seemed puzzled. “They raised you, did they not?”

At that moment Reva abandoned all thought of escape. She went to the empty chair and sat down. “My grandparents are dead,” she said. “My mother is dead. My father . . .” She fell to silence for a moment. He needed little education on her father. “Why didn’t you let them kill me?”

He laughed and poured more wine into his glass. “What kind of uncle would that make me?”

“You knew my mother?”

“Indeed I did. Not so well as your father, obviously. But I remember her very well.” His reddened eyes roamed her face. “Such a very pretty thing. So lively too. Little wonder Hentes fell for her so. When I saw you I thought her ghost had come to save me. You are her very image, but for your eyes. They are all Hentes.”

Fell for her? The priest had left her no illusions about her parents’ relationship. Your mother was a whore, he had told her simply. One of many to tempt the Trueblade before the Father graced him with His word. Now you have the chance to redeem her sin, give meaning to your misbegotten life.

“If only she hadn’t been a maid, they might have married,” her uncle continued. “Your grandfather’s rage was a thing to see when it transpired you were on the way. There had been other girls over the years, of course, a smattering of bastards, but none he wanted to keep. Reva was packed off back to her parents’ farm with a suitably large purse, and Hentes sent to the Nilsaelin border to deal with a particularly nasty band of outlaws. When word reached him of your mother’s death in childbirth, I wondered if it wasn’t his sorrow that made him so reckless. The old Hentes would never have charged a bowman standing thirty feet away.”

“‘Though a sinner, the man who would become the Trueblade never shirked his duty,’” she quoted. “‘He was wounded in service to the people, taken by the arrow of a lawless man. For days he lay in pain, senseless to the world, until the Father’s word woke him to a new purpose.’”

“You know the Eleventh Book then?”

“Every word.” Beaten into me, until I knew it better than he did.

“That man last night,” the Fief Lord said. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

She nodded, finding herself unable to speak of the priest.

“Then you know his name,” Veliss said, looking up from her scroll. “His companion, the one you maimed, seems reluctant to tell us.”

“It’s unlikely he knows it. The Sons rarely use their true names, even to each other.”

“The Sons.” Her uncle sighed, sipping more wine. “Of course. Who else? Always the bloody Sons.”

“Except,” Veliss observed, regarding Reva with the same brazen interest she had shown in the bedroom. “Now we have a daughter in our hands.”

“A niece,” the Fief Lord said in a flat tone. “My niece, counsellor.”

“Do not mistake me, my lord. After all, like you, I owe this interesting young woman my life. I wish nothing more than to please her . . .”

“The maimed prisoner,” he interrupted. “Did he have anything else of interest to impart?”

“It’s all here.” She tossed the scroll onto the table. “Usual fanatical nonsense. Reclaiming the fief for the World Father, ending the Heretic Dominion. It took some time before he became cooperative.”

Lord Mustor picked up the scroll, squinting as he read. “The maid?” he asked. “That’s how they got in.”

“It seems she was sympathetic, didn’t expect her reward to be a slit throat. I must be more rigorous in selecting future employees. I’m having her room searched now, though I doubt we’ll find anything.” She turned again to Reva, her expression harder now. “The name,” she said.

“I never knew it,” she replied. “Priests do not share the names given them by the Father.”

Veliss exchanged a glance with Mustor, a faint look of triumph on her face. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said in a warning tone.

“Perhaps not yet.” Veliss moved back from the table with a brisk flex of her wrists. “Though it does give me another avenue to explore with our prisoner. If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” She bowed to Reva. “My lady.” She began to walk away then paused at Reva’s side, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, I’ve arranged for a gift for you. A token of my esteem you might say. It’ll be here presently.” A final wink and she was off, striding along the gravel path back to the manse, full of purpose.

“Is she torturing him?” Reva asked.

“Nothing so vulgar,” he replied. “At least not until it becomes necessary. Lady Veliss is skilled in the concoction of certain herbal mixtures that can have a loosening effect on the tongue, and also the mind, which makes the questioning fairly tricky. My counsellor’s manner can be somewhat . . . unsubtle, at times. But she is loyal to this fief, and to me. Have no doubt.”

“I don’t like the way she looks at me.”

Lord Mustor laughed as he poured the remaining wine into his glass. “Take it as a compliment. She’s very choosy.”

Reva found this was a topic she didn’t wish to explore further and reached out to touch her fingers to the sword’s hilt. “You saved it,” she said. “Kept it. I should thank you for that.”

He frowned in puzzlement. “Your great-grandfather’s sword has been hanging on the practice-room wall for as long as I can remember. I was curious as to why you should go to such lengths to steal it.”

“Great-grandfather?” She groaned, withdrawing her hand. “I thought . . .” I have come so far, for nothing.

“You thought this belonged to Hentes?” His eyebrows rose in understanding. “The sword of the Trueblade. A great and holy relic indeed. I wish I had it.”

“You do not?”

“Lost in the High Keep when he died. Vanished by the time it occurred to me to retrieve it. I would have asked Al Sorna to force those dungeon rats in his regiment to give it up, but my stock wasn’t particularly high at the time.”

“All a waste then,” she said, voice soft. “I have travelled so many miles, lying, hurting and killing along the way. All in search of something that can’t be found.”

“The priest. He set you on this path?”

“He sent me to die. I see it now. Al Sorna was right. I was to be the new martyr, the rallying cry for the reborn Sons of the Trueblade. That’s what the priest made me, ever since I was old enough to walk, he raised me to be a corpse.”

“Do you remember nothing before, nothing of your grandparents?”

“There are . . . images of other people, faces I knew before his. I think they were kind. But they always seemed a dream. And he was so very real, his every word the Father’s truth. Except he was a liar. What does that mean, Uncle? What of the Father’s love now?” Tears were coming again and she was obliged to use the lace cuffs of her ridiculous dress to wipe them away.

Her uncle drained his glass and waved it at a servant who trotted off to fetch another bottle. “Allow me to impart a secret, my wonderful niece.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I may cultivate the image of a godless sinner, but I have never doubted that the Father’s gaze rests upon me. I feel it, every day, a great and terrible weight . . . of disappointment.”

She found she couldn’t contain the laugh, mirth and tears mixing on her face.

“But there’s more,” he went on. “Who but the Father could bring me such a great gift? A saviour and a niece on the very night assassins come to kill me. Tell me you do not see His hand in this, and I’ll not believe you.”

He turned at the sound of the main gate opening. “Ah, it seems my counsellor’s gift has arrived.”

Reva rose in alarm at the sight of the approaching group, four guards, pushing a broad-shouldered youth ahead of them. She ran forward as they came to a halt, Arken sporting a blue-black bruise under his eye. “What have you done to him?”

“Apologies, my lord,” the guard sergeant said as Mustor sauntered over. “The boy saw us coming and jumped from the inn window. Wouldn’t listen to reason.”

Reva touched a hand to Arken’s bruise, wincing. “I told you not to wait.”

He gave a sheepish grimace. “Didn’t want to go to the Reaches on my own.”

The Fief Lord coughed in expectation. “It seems,” Reva said, “we’ll be staying with my uncle after all.”

They gave her a maid, a quiet woman with mercifully few questions, but a keenness to her gaze making Reva suspect her principal duty consisted of providing reports to Lady Veliss. She was given more dresses and a suite of rooms on the floor below those her uncle shared with his counsellor. She wondered if there was any significance to the fact that Arken was housed in a separate wing.

“He’s just my friend,” she had insisted in answer to the Fief Lord’s query over breakfast the next day.

“An Asraelin friend,” he pointed out.

“Just like Lady Veliss,” she returned.

“Which gives me a wealth of experience in fending off the jibes of those in this fief who still hunger for independence. If you are to be my acknowledged niece, a certain . . . discretion will be required.”

She chose to ignore the obvious irony of being lectured on discretion by so famous a whore chaser. “Acknowledged niece?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I . . . don’t know.” In fact she had little notion of what course to follow next. The priest was a lie, the sword a myth, and the Father’s love . . . “I thought I might journey to the Northern Reaches. I have friends there.”

“Al Sorna, you mean.” There was a sourness to his voice that told her she had finally found someone not in awe of her former tutor. “I don’t think I like the notion of my niece in proximity to that man. Trouble finds him with far too much regularity.”

“So I am your prisoner, now? Kept here to do your bidding.”

“You are free to go where you wish. But don’t you want to stay a while with your lonely old uncle?”

Reva was puzzling over an answer when the Lady Veliss arrived to join them. Breakfast was usually eaten in the large dining hall with the portraits on the walls. Veliss and the Fief Lord had a curious habit of sitting at opposite ends of the long table, obliging them to converse in shouts.

“Any more intelligence to impart, counsellor?” Mustor called to her as she sat down to a plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms.

“Sadly our prisoner contrived to expire under questioning,” she shouted back, shaking out her napkin. “Too much drum-weed in the mix. All I managed to extract were a few ramblings about some great and powerful ally, able to match the Darkness that perpetuates the Heretic Dominion.” She shook her head. “These fanatics grow ever more deluded.” She cast a critical gaze over Reva. “You’ll need to change, love. Something more formal, and pleasing. It’s the Father’s Day, and we have a service to attend.”

“Service?”

“The date of Alltor’s first prophecy approaches,” her uncle said. “Three weeks hence. The Reader himself will conduct a service in the cathedral on each Father’s Day until then.”

“Services are a perversion of the Ten Books,” Reva said, in remembrance rather than conviction. “No rituals are stipulated in the books. The truly loved need no empty ceremony from the venal church.”

“Did the priest teach you that?” he asked.

She nodded. “And much more.”

“Then perhaps there may be some wisdom to the Sons’ delusions. In any case, perversion or not, I would greatly appreciate your attendance. I think the Reader will find you most interesting.”

She tried on four dresses before finding one Veliss approved of, a black tight-bodiced contrivance with lace sleeves and a high collar. “It itches,” Reva grumbled as they formed a procession before the main gate. A squad of guards lined up on either side and they started forward at a sedate walk, making their way through the gate and into the square beyond.

“Power comes at a price, love,” Veliss replied through bared teeth, maintaining the smile she offered to the townsfolk lining the square.

“What power?”

“All power. The power to rule, to kill or, in your case this fine morning, the power to incite the lust of the old goat you’re about to meet.”

“Lust? I have no desire to incite lust in anyone.”

Veliss turned to her with a quizzical expression, her smile suddenly genuine. “Then I’m afraid you’re in for a lifetime of disappointment.”

Inside, the cathedral seemed a vast wonder of ascending arches and tall windows, the stained glass casting multi-coloured rays across the pillars. The air was thick with incense as they made their way to the balcony on the western wall, the raised seats offering a fine view of the interior. In the centre of the space below stood a podium surrounded by ten lecterns.

It took an age for the whole congregation to assemble, finely attired nobles and merchants in the foremost rows, poorer folk behind, the poorest lining the walls. Reva had never seen such a multitude in one place, and found herself squirming under the weight of so many curious eyes. “Is the whole city here?” she whispered to her uncle.

“Hardly. Perhaps a tenth. There are other chapels in the city. Only the most devout come here, or the richest.”

The sound of a bell pealed forth, stilling the murmur of conversation. After a moment the white-robed figure of the Reader appeared, preceded once again by his five book-bearing bishops. They went to each of the lecterns, placing the books with careful reverence before stepping back, hands clasped together and eyes downcast as the Reader ascended the podium. He surveyed the congregation with a faint smile then raised his gaze to the balcony, smiling at the Fief Lord, at Lady Veliss, and paling somewhat at the sight of Reva, the smile slipping from his lips, making them sag on his aged face like two wet slugs.

That, Reva decided, is not the expression of a lustful man.

The Reader seemed to recover his composure quickly, turning and opening one of the books, his voice strong and clear as he read, “‘There are two types of hate. The hatred of the man who knows you and the hatred of the man who fears you. Show love to both and they will hate you no longer.’”

The Tenth Book, Reva recognised. The Book of Wisdom.

“Hatred,” the Reader repeated, raising his gaze to the congregation. “The World Father’s love, you would think, would be enough to banish all hatred from the hearts of men. But, of course, it is not. For not all men open their hearts to such love. Not all men allow themselves to listen to the words in these ten books, and many who do make only a pretence of hearing their truth. Not all men have the courage to cast off their old ways, to banish sin from their hearts and make a new life under the Father’s gaze. In return for what He offers the Father asks so very little, he offers you love. His love. A love that will preserve your soul for eternity . . .”

Reva’s boredom grew as he droned on, her collar itching worse than before as she tried not to fidget. What am I doing here? she wondered. Showing respectful obedience to an uncle I don’t even know. Alongside his whore no less.

She was seized by a desire to leave, just get up and walk out. Uncle had said she was free to go where she wished, and she wished to be somewhere far away from this old man’s twaddle. But his expression when he saw me, she remembered. Not lust, fear. She had scared him, badly, and she found she wanted to know why.

Although it seemed a century, the Reader spoke for perhaps an hour, pausing now and then to read another passage from one of the books, then launching into another rambling diatribe on the Father’s love and the nature of sin. As a child one of her few pleasures had been those periods of respite when the priest would educate her in the Ten Books, reading every passage with such passionate conviction she couldn’t help but be swept along in the torrent of words. The respite was always brief though, for he would test her after every reading, hickory cane poised to punish any fumbled recitation.

She found no echo of the priest’s passion here in this vaulted cavern of glass and marble, just an old man’s empty dogma. It can’t all be a lie, she thought, fighting a rising sense of desperation. Even Uncle Sentes feels the Father’s love. There must be truth here somewhere.

The Reader’s last words were lost to Reva as she indulged in memories of time spent with Alornis, finding she badly wanted to see her draw again. Finally he fell silent and walked from the podium as the congregation rose from their seats, heads bowed. The bishops, who had remained standing throughout, though some were almost as old as the Reader, retrieved their books from the lecterns and followed in solemn silence. The bell pealed once more and the cathedral began to empty. A few of the nobles and merchants attempted to linger at the balcony steps to beg a word with the Fief Lord but were shooed away by the guards.

“Right,” Uncle Sentes said when the last of the congregants had filed out, standing and offering Reva his hand. “Let’s see what the old bastard has to say for himself.”

“Your niece, my lord?” The Reader’s voice was carefully modulated, just enough surprise mixed in with the serenity. They had been conveyed to his private chambers by a coldly servile priest who couldn’t disguise his disdain for Veliss, or a suspicious sneer at Reva. She resolved to punch him on the way out.

“Indeed, Holy Reader,” Uncle Sentes replied. “My niece, soon to be acknowledged as such. It would be an honour if you would witness the warrant, as well as serving to still any silly doubts amongst the people. I’ve had the document prepared.”

Lady Veliss placed the scroll she held on the Reader’s desk, unfurling it and securing the edge with an inkpot. “Where I’ve marked, if you please, Holy Reader.”

The Reader barely glanced at the document, apparently finding it difficult not to look at Reva, his expression not so fearful now. Some lust in him after all, she thought. “How old are you child?” he asked.

She couldn’t say where the certainty came from, but she had no doubt he already knew her age, probably to the day. “Eighteen years this summer, Holy Reader,” she replied.

“Eighteen years.” The old man shook his head. “At my age the years speed by so. It seems no more than a week since your father came to me, seeking guidance. He wanted so badly to marry your mother, and, though it grieves me to say so in your uncle’s hearing, I counselled him to do so, in defiance of his father. ‘The joining of hearts is to be rejoiced at.’”

“‘And only a sinful man will sunder those joined in love,’” Reva concluded. The Second Book, The Book of Blessings.

The Reader smiled and sighed in pleasure. “I see the Father’s love burns bright in you, child.” He picked up a quill, dipping it in the inkpot to add his signature to the document formalising her acknowledgment as Lady Reva Mustor, Niece to Fief Lord Sentes Mustor of Cumbrael. Veliss reclaimed the scroll and moved back to the Fief Lord’s side, blowing gently on the wet ink.

“I do so hate to trouble you further, Holy Reader,” the Fief Lord said. “But I have grave news to impart.”

The old man gave a placid nod. “The Realm Guard marches towards our borders once more. Grim tidings indeed. We can only trust the Father’s benevolence will save us from further ravishment.”

“The Realm Guard will spend a month or so wandering around woods and hills seeking the fanatics who attacked the Lord of the South Tower. Having found nothing, they will go home. A necessary demonstration for the Asraelin populace. I have the King’s Word on it.” Her uncle’s red eyes for once were clear and bright with scrutiny as he read the Reader’s expression. “No, the news I must impart is far graver. You see my niece is not only accomplished in her knowledge of the Ten Books, she also wields a sword with great skill, even more skill than my late brother in fact.”

“Really?” The Reader gazed at Reva in wonder. “The Father is generous with his blessings, it seems.”

“Doubly generous,” Uncle Sentes said. “For he contrived to place her in my manor the very night three assassins came to kill me. But for her I wouldn’t be standing here.”

The Reader’s shock was genuine, she could see it, the start that made his aged jowls wobble, the slight frown of consternation; the face of a man suffering an unpleasant surprise. “The Father be thanked you are not hurt, my lord,” he gasped. “The assassins, do they live?”

“Sadly, no. One was slain by my wonderful niece, a second by my guards.” He paused, his gaze still fixed on the Reader’s face. “But one escaped. A man my niece insists is a priest in your church.”

The Reader’s alarm was also genuine, but not so surprised as before. He knows, Reva thought. He knows who the priest is. She found her fists clenching as the old man made a show of sorrowful reflection.

“Sadly the priestly calling does not make us immune from misguided notions,” he said. “Your brother’s words, heretical though they were, found many willing adherents, including some amongst the priesthood. I shall, of course, exhaust every resource available to the church to bring this rogue to justice. If you could furnish a description . . .”

Veliss produced a second smaller scroll and placed it on his desk. “Ah, efficient as ever, my lady,” the Reader said. “It shall be copied and distributed to every chapel within days. The fugitive will find no refuge in the church, I assure you.”

Reva took a step towards him, fists aching now, finding her uncle’s hand on her arm, gentle but firm.

“Your consideration is appreciated, Holy Reader,” he said. “I believe we have troubled you enough for one day.”

“Feel free to trouble me on all days, my lord.” He smiled at Reva. “Especially if the company you bring is so delightful as today.”

Her uncle tugged her arm and started for the door, but Reva didn’t move just yet. “‘Deceit,’” she said to the Reader, “‘is the hardest sin to divine, for many a lie is spoken in kindness, and many a truth in cruelty.’”

He kept it from his face, but his eyes gleamed with it, just for a second: anger. “Quite so, my dear. Quite so.”

“Reva,” Uncle Sentes said from the door.

Reva bowed to the Reader and followed her uncle from the room. The sneering priest stood in the hallway, regarding her with unmistakable contempt.

“Pardon me,” Reva said, pausing. He was a tall man and she was obliged to look up at him, though not tall enough to be out of reach. “Your nose appears to be bleeding.”

He frowned, fingers coming up to touch his nose, coming away clean. “I don’t . . .”

His head snapped back from the force of the blow, nose breaking, though not with enough force to kill him. He stumbled backwards to collide with the wall, sinking to the floor, blood streaming down his face.

“My mistake,” Reva said, moving on. “Now it’s bleeding.”

“That was unbecoming,” Uncle Sentes reproached when they had returned to the manse, going to the library where a fresh bottle of wine was already waiting. Lady Veliss, however, seemed to be smothering a laugh.

Reva slumped into a chair, unbuttoning her hateful collar and scratching furiously. “That old man is a liar,” she stated.

“Evidently,” he replied, removing the cork and sniffing the bottle’s contents. “Umblin Valley, five years old. Very nice.”

“So that’s it?” Reva asked. “He lies to your face and you do nothing?”

The Fief Lord merely smiled and poured the wine.

“We imparted a warning,” Veliss said, glancing up from her desk, the one Reva had paused at during her mission to retrieve the sword. Veliss was still engaged in study of the same book, the one about money and wine-making, her desk stacked high with copious notes. “The great hypocrite will be on the defensive now.”

“Where I would like to keep him for good,” Uncle Sentes added. “Something your vaunted grandfather never quite managed.”

“He knows,” Reva said. “The priest, where he is. I can tell.”

“Hungry for vengeance, love?” Veliss asked. “Did he treat you so badly?”

Filthy, Fatherless sinner . . . Reva got up from the chair, moving to the door. “I’m going to change.”

“It would help if we knew more about him,” Veliss said, making her pause. “About how you were raised. Where exactly was it? A castle, a cave in the mountains?”

“A barn,” she replied in a mutter before leaving the room.

She went to her room, undressing with an urgency that left several rips in the dress, tossing it into a corner. She changed into her preferred garb of riding trews and loose-fitting blouse, provided at her insistence despite Veliss’s objections. I’ll find him myself, she decided as she laced up her boots. Sneak into the cathedral tonight and make the old man spill his secrets . . .

There was a knock on the door, soft but insistent. She opened it to find her uncle there, his expression kind but insistent. “A barn?” he said.

She sighed, moving back and sitting on the bed. He came in, closing the door and sitting next to her. She was surprised to see he had no bottle with him. They sat in silence for a moment, Reva trying to form words that might make some sense to him. “It was big,” she said eventually. “The barn. No animals, no ploughs, just me and him, and a lot of straw. My first clear memory is of climbing up and down the beams. If I fell, he’d beat me.”

“He did that many times?”

“More than I could count. He was skilled with the cane, leaving no scars, save this one.” She pulled back her hair to reveal the mark above her right ear from the time he had beaten her unconscious.

“Do you know where it was, this barn?”

“It sat amidst broad fields, the grass was long and visitors were rare, stern men who looked at me with odd expressions. He called them his brothers, they called him the Truepriest. There was one man though, different from the others. He came only once or twice a year, and the priest would make me stay in the shadows when he did. I couldn’t hear what they spoke of, but I’m fairly certain the priest called him ‘my lord.’”

“Can you describe him?”

“Broad across the shoulders, not particularly tall. He had a bald head and a black beard.”

She saw recognition dawn in his eyes. She waited for him to name the man but instead he said, “Go on. What else can you remember?”

“As I grew older he began to take me to the village where he went for supplies. I had little experience of other people and hardly any notion of how to act around them, shouting and pointing in excitement the first time. That earned me a beating. ‘You must not be noticed,’ he said. ‘You must pass through the lives of others leaving no mark.’ Later he would send me on my own at night, either to steal or to contrive a means of overhearing a conversation. Practice for my holy mission, I suppose. I began to know the villagers quite well, their gossip giving me a fine insight into their lives. The baker’s wife was carrying on with a tinker who came by every two weeks. The wheelwright had lost a son at Greenwater Ford. The village priest was far too fond of the ale. Then one night, I happened upon an open window . . .” I knew her only as the carpenter’s daughter. She stood before a basin, guiding a washcloth over her skin. The light from the lantern seemed to make her skin glow, her hair like gold . . .

“Reva?” Uncle Sentes prompted.

She shook her head. “The priest had been following me, every night, without my knowledge. I lingered by that window too long. The next day he gave me this.” She touched a hand to her scar.

“The name of the village?”

“Kernmill.”

This seemed to confirm a suspicion in his mind and he nodded. “I’m sorry, Reva,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I may not be the best Fief Lord, but I’m resolved to be the best uncle. And as a present to my niece I intend to find this priest and watch when you gut him. Would you like that?”

She blinked away tears and returned his embrace, whispering. “Yes, Uncle. I should like that very much.”

The days that followed saw her settling into a routine at the manor. Practice in the sword room with Arken in the mornings, lunch with Veliss and the Fief Lord in the afternoon followed by an interminable hour or more of sitting in the corner whilst one or both of them met with some merchant or lord asking for something. Evenings saw her free to go riding with Arken, her uncle having secured a place in the stables for Snorter and Bumper. They would range beyond the walls until night came, hunting when opportunity arose. Arken had acquired a longbow from somewhere, proving capable of drawing it which was still more than Reva could do, although his ability to find his mark was meagre compared to her skill with the wych elm. Every Feldrian she was also required to sit through the petitions, Veliss quizzing her on their relative merits when the whole boring palaver was done.

“I don’t know,” she groaned as Veliss asked her opinion on a disputed land grant. The land had been gifted to a former House Guard by her grandfather and now his two eldest sons were fighting over it. “Divide it in half or something.”

“The quality of the land is variable,” Veliss explained. She had a seemingly infinite well of patience despite Reva’s continued air of tired indifference. “Rich pasture sits alongside rock-strewn bog, like a patchwork of good and bad cloth. Such land is not easily divided.”

“Then tell them to sell it and split the money between them.”

“The elder brother would like that I’m sure, but the younger lives on the land with his wife and children and wants to stay.”

“‘All land is the Father’s gift,’” Reva quoted, stifling a yawn. “‘But only the man who works the land can lay claim to it.’ The Seventh Book, Alltor’s judgement on the greed of landlords.”

“So just give the land to the younger brother and risk angering the elder?”

“Is he an important man?”

“Not especially, but he does enjoy the patronage of some minor nobles.”

“Then his anger shouldn’t matter. Are we done yet?”

That afternoon she went to badger her uncle for news of the priest, something that had become a near-daily ritual. She found him in his rooms, buttoning his shirt whilst a large man in a grey robe stood at the window, holding a small bottle up to the light as he shook it.

“Reva,” the Fief Lord greeted her. “Do you know Brother Harin?”

The large grey-robed man turned to offer her a bow. “The niece I’ve heard so much about? Can’t say I see a resemblance, Hentes. Too pretty by half.”

“Yes. Fortunately for her, she favours her mother.”

Reva found herself unable to suppress a pang of suspicion at the presence of the large man. “You are a healer?”

“Indeed, my lady. Once Master of Bones at the House of the Fifth Order, sent by my Aspect to care for your uncle . . .”

“And all the heretic Faithful I allow to remain in this city,” Uncle Sentes interrupted. “Don’t forget them.” There was a hardness to his tone making Brother Harin raise his eyebrows and hand the Fief Lord the small bottle in silence.

“Same dose as before?” her uncle asked.

“Probably best to increase it. Four times a day . . .”

“Mixed with clean water, yes I know.”

Brother Harin pulled a leather satchel over his shoulder. “I’ll be back next week.” He went to the door and gave Reva another bow before leaving.

“He doesn’t address you properly,” she said.

“Because I told him not to. Seems a little silly to stand on ceremony with a man who’s had his finger up your arse.”

She nodded at the bottle. “What is that?”

“Just a little tonic.” He placed it on a table. “Helps me sleep. You’ve come to ask about the priest.”

“Let me hunt for him,” she said. “Send me and I’ll bring him back bound and ready for judgement in a month. I swear it.”

“This is hardly the best time, with the Realm Guard roaming our borders people are uncertain enough. Uncovering whatever schemes the Reader may have indulged in will only add to the alarm.”

“You know who that man is, the one the priest called a lord. I could tell.”

“I don’t know, I suspect. And I’ll not upset a long-worked-for peace by proceeding on suspicion alone. We’ll act, Reva, you have my promise. But we’ll act soft and slow so the old bastard doesn’t see us coming.”

“I can be stealthy,” she insisted. You’ve no idea how stealthy . . .

He shook his head. “I don’t doubt your abilities but I need you here. The people must become accustomed to seeing you at my side.”

She bit down her disappointment. “Why? You’ve acknowledged me. Why do they need to see me?”

This gave him pause, his brows creasing in realisation. “You don’t know, do you? You honestly have no notion at all.”

“No notion of what?”

“Reva, you may have noticed but there are no children in this house. Nor are there likely to be. I had no heirs, no-one to follow me to the Chair. But now, I have you.”

She felt a cold hand creeping across her chest. “What?” she said in a thin sigh.

“A few of your father’s . . . indiscretions have come calling over the years. Some seeking acknowledgment, only to be disappointed. Most just asking a favour or a full purse. I was happy to send them all on their way. Until you, Reva. How old were you when the priest took you away from your grandparents, do you think?”

“I know how old, he told me. I was six.”

“Your father died nigh on nine years ago. That means he took you three years before Hentes assassinated our father and plunged this fief into war. Of all Hentes’s children, he came for you. He saw what I can see.”

She shook her head in confusion. “What can you see?”

“The next Mustor to sit in the Lord’s Chair.” He moved closer, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Sent to me by the Father Himself, for surely He heard my prayer.”

“A girl can’t be a Fief Lord,” Arken said as they rode out that evening, cantering along the causeway and off towards the forested hills to the north.

“Fief Lady,” Reva said, the cold hand still gripping her chest. Her tone was flat, the enormity of her uncle’s words leaving no room for emotion.

“That doesn’t sound right,” Arken said. “You’ll have to think of something better. Countess maybe.”

“You only get countesses in Nilsael.” She pulled on the reins, Snorter coming to a halt. She sat in the saddle for a long time, the coldness gradually giving way to a heart-thumping bout of terror. “I can’t stay here,” she decided in a tremulous voice. “I should never have lingered.”

“Your uncle has been good to you, to us.”

“Because he wants an heir.”

“Not just that. He loves you, I can tell.”

Or the memory of his brother, the man he couldn’t be. Reva ran a shaking hand over her forehead. “The Northern Reaches,” she said. “We can go there. You said you’d like that.”

“When there wasn’t anywhere else . . .”

“We can go now. We have horses, weapons, money . . .”

“Reva . . .”

“I can’t do this! I’m just a filthy, Fatherless sinner! Don’t you understand?”

She spurred Snorter to a gallop, making for the trees. She was halfway there when something made her pull up, another horse cresting the hilltop ahead. It moved with the ragged trot of an exhausted animal, foam covering its flanks and mouth, the rider slumped forward, barely able to keep himself in the saddle. Well-honed instincts brought one word to mind. Trouble.

She watched them straggle closer, Snorter stirring beneath her, nostrils flaring at the unwelcome stench of a fellow horse near death, keen to keep running. The Northern Reaches, Reva thought. Al Sorna will welcome you.

She kicked Snorter into motion, closing the distance to the horse. The rider was so exhausted he barely noticed when she reached out to grab the reins, tugging his mount to a halt. Realm Guard, she noted from his garb, taking in the red-brown smears on his breastplate and the empty scabbard on his saddle. “Where’s your sabre?” she asked.

His head snapped up in alarm, a face of encrusted sweat and dried blood, regarding her in naked terror before he blinked and took in his surroundings. “Alltor?” he croaked.

“Yes,” Reva replied. “Alltor. What has happened to you?”

“To me?” The man bared his teeth, a strange light in his eyes as he giggled. “They killed me, girl. They killed us all.” His giggle turned into a full laugh, the laugh into a choking cough before he slumped forward, falling from the saddle. Reva dismounted, taking the waterskin from Snorter’s saddlebag and holding it to the guardsman’s lips. He coughed again, but was soon gulping down water in great heaves.

“I . . . need to see the Fief Lord,” he gasped when he had drunk his fill.

Reva looked back at the city, shrouded in the pall rising from many chimneys, the dim outline of the manor where the servants would be preparing the evening meal, and the great twin spires, home to a great old liar. “I’ll take you to him,” she said. “He’s my uncle.”