Tower Lord

CHAPTER EIGHT

Reva

World Father, I beg you, do not deny your love to this miserable sinner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World Father, I beg you . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t.”

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

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

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

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

Filthy, Fatherless sinner!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You made this?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

The old man inclined his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I bargained it down.”

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

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

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

“He’s a spy?”

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

“And you allowed him to keep coming here?”

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

“He’s a drunkard and a liar.”

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

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

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

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

“Brother,” the gaunt man said. “It gladdens my heart, and the hearts of all the truly Faithful, to see you safely returned to us.”

Al Sorna replied in clipped tones, devoid of any warmth or regard. “Aspect Tendris.”

“I told him he wasn’t welcome, my lord,” the guard captain said.

“And why would he say that, brother?” the gaunt man asked. “Why should you ever bar your door to your brother in the Faith?”

“Aspect,” Al Sorna said. “Whatever it is you want, I can’t give it to you.”

“Not true, brother.” The Aspect’s voice became fierce, his eyes wide with conviction. Reva noticed his voice was pitched loud enough to be caught by all ears in the crowd. “You can join with us. My Order welcomes you, as your own does not.”

Reva shifted in her saddle, settling the sword more comfortably on her back. This man is mad, she decided. Some lunatic luminary of their heretic faith, so lost in its lies his reason has fled.

“I no longer have an Order,” Al Sorna informed the Aspect, his own voice at an even level. “Nor do I wish another. I am commanded by our King to undertake Lordship of the North Tower.”

“The King,” Tendris rasped. “A man in thrall to a Denier witch.”

“Watch your tongue, Aspect!” the guard captain warned, causing his men to take a two-handed grip on their pole-axes. The black-cloaked men began reaching for their weapons.

“Enough of this!” Al Sorna barked, the implacable note of command in his voice sufficient to forestall further movement, even the crowd seemed to have frozen. However, there was one, Reva saw, who seemed immune to the command, one of the black-cloaks, a large, blocky man with broad, brutish features and a strikingly misshapen nose. He was careful, keeping his movements small as he shifted something beneath his cloak.

“You’ve stated your case and had your answer,” Al Sorna told the Aspect. “Now take yourself off.”

“So this is what you’ve become?” Tendris grated, his horse fidgeting as it read his mood, his wide-eyed gaze shifting from Al Sorna to Reva. “A Faithless slave of the Crown, shamelessly parading his god-worshipping whore about-”

Reva’s knife came free of its sheath in a blur. She rose in the saddle, leaning forward as the knife left her hand, barely five feet from the Aspect. It was one of her more clumsy efforts, as she had to account for the shifting of her horse, and the knife tumbled untidily as it flew past the Aspect’s ear to bury itself in the shoulder of the man with the misshapen nose. He screamed, high and shrill, collapsing to his knees, the loaded and drawn crossbow he had been raising clattering to the cobbles.

The guard captain barked an order and his men moved forward, pole-axes levelled. The other black-cloaks began to draw their swords but stopped at a shout from the Aspect. The crowd drew back at the violence, some scattering, others retreating a ways before turning to stare at the spectacle.

Al Sorna guided his horse forward a few paces, looking down at the large brother as he rolled on the ground, groaning then gasping as he drew Reva’s knife from his shoulder, staring at the bloody blade in horror. “Don’t I know you?” Al Sorna asked.

“You have shamed the Order, Iltis,” the Aspect scolded the fallen brother before addressing Al Sorna. “This man acted without my sanction.”

“I’m sure, Aspect.” Al Sorna smiled at the unfortunate Brother Iltis. “He had a debt to repay, I know.”

“Brother, I beg you.” Tendris reached out to grasp the Darkblade’s forearm. “The Faith needs you. Come back to us.”

Al Sorna turned his horse, breaking the Aspect’s grip. “There is nothing to come back to. And you and are I done here.”

The guards took charge of Brother Iltis, dragging him away as Reva dismounted to retrieve her knife. “And I’m not his whore!” she called to Tendris as he rode away, his brothers trotting in his wake. “I’m his sister! Haven’t you heard?”

“Kindred spirit?”

Al Sorna shrugged and smiled. “I thought you’d get on better. He’s as wedded to the Faith as you are to the Father’s love.”

“That man is a mad heretic wallowing in delusion,” Reva stated. “I am not.”

Al Sorna just smiled again and spurred on ahead. They were on the north road, having exited Varinshold a mile or so back, Alornis riding in morose silence amidst their escort, a full company of the Mounted Guard. Evidently, the Darkblade’s King was keen for him to reach his destination.

Another mile brought them within sight of a grim castle of dark granite. It was not as tall as the Cumbraelin castles she had seen, the inner wall only some thirty feet high, but it was larger, enclosing several acres within its walls. There were no pennants flying from the towers and Reva wondered what Asraelin noble could afford the upkeep of such a mighty stronghold. Al Sorna had reined in a short distance ahead and she spurred her mare to a trot, pulling up at his side. “What is this place?”

Al Sorna’s gaze stayed on the castle, his face betraying a sadness she hadn’t seen before. “You need to wait here,” he said. “Tell the captain I’ll be an hour or so.”

He kicked his stallion into motion, riding towards the gate in the castle’s outer wall at a steady trot. Upon reaching it he dismounted and rang a bell hanging from a nearby post. After only a few moments a tall, blue-robed figure appeared at the gate. He was too far away to make out his features, but Reva had the sense he was smiling in welcome. The tall man pulled the gate open and Al Sorna went inside, both of them quickly vanishing from view.

“The first time he went through that gate was the last time my father ever saw him.” Alornis sat on her horse a few yards away, regarding the castle with deep suspicion.

“This is the home of the Sixth Order?” Reva asked.

Alornis nodded and dismounted. She moved with a smooth precision, clearly no stranger to the saddle, holding something up to her horse’s mouth, the white-nosed mare chomping on it with evident appreciation. “You can always win a horse’s heart with a sugar lump,” she said, patting the animal’s flank then reaching for her saddlebag. “You and I have something very important to do.”

That’s not me.

The girl depicted on the parchment was very pretty, despite a slightly off-centre nose, with a tumble of lustrous hair and bright eyes that seemed to gleam with a life of their own. Despite Alornis’s obvious flattery, Reva was compelled, even a little chilled, by the talent on display. Just charcoal and parchment, she wondered. Yet she makes them live.

“Hopefully they’ll have canvas and pigment in the Northern Reaches,” Alornis said, adding a few strokes to the shadows under the too-perfect curve of Reva’s jawline. “This one’s definitely worth painting.”

They sat together under a willow tree some distance from the castle walls. Al Sorna had been inside for close to two hours. “Do you know why the Darkblade came here?” she asked Alornis.

“I’m starting to realise that understanding my brother’s actions may be a task beyond me.” She looked up from her sketch. “Why do you call him Darkblade?”

“It’s the name my people gave him. The Fourth Book foretold a fearsome heretic warrior who wields his sword with the aid of the Dark.”

“Do you believe such silliness?”

Reva flushed and looked away. “The love of the Father is not silliness. Do you consider your Faith silly? Bowing down to the imaginary shades of your ancestors.”

“I don’t bow down to anything. My parents now, they were devoted in their adherence to the Ascendant Creed, the path to perfection and wisdom, attainable through the right combination of words, a poem or a song that could unlock all the secrets of the soul and with it, the world. They used to drag me along to their meetings, held in secret in those days. We’d gather in basements and recite our creeds. Mumma would get cross when I giggled through mine. I thought it all such nonsense.”

“So she beat you for your heresy?”

Alornis blinked at her. “Beat me? Of course not.”

Reva looked away again, realising she had made a mistake.

“Reva?” Alornis put her sketch aside and came to sit beside her, touching a hand to her shoulder. “Were you . . . ? Did someone . . . ?”

Filthy, Fatherless sinner! “Don’t!” She jerked away, rising, walking to the other side of the willow, the priest’s words hounding her. “I know what lies festering in your heart, girl. I saw your eyes on her . . .” The hickory cane he used fell with every word as she stood there, arms at her sides, forbidden to move, or cry out. “You befoul the Book of Reason! You befoul the Book of Laws! You befoul the Book of Judgement!” His last blow caught her on the temple, sending her to the barn floor, dazed and bleeding onto the straw. “By rights I should kill you, but you are saved by your blood. This mission given to us by the Father Himself saves you. But if we are to succeed, I must beat the sin from you.” And he did, until the pain was such she felt nothing more and blackness engulfed her.

She was on her knees in the grass, hugging herself. Filthy, Fatherless sinner.

Al Sorna returned from the Sixth Order’s castle as the afternoon sun began to wane. He said nothing, motioning the guard company into their ranks and riding on without pause. His silence stayed in place until nightfall when they made camp and ate a supper of bland but hearty soldier’s fare. Reva sat across from Alornis, eating mechanically and avoiding her gaze. Too long, she thought continually. Too long with him. Too long with her.

There was a scrape of boot leather and she looked up to find Al Sorna standing over her. “It’s time I fulfilled our bargain.”

They left Alornis at the fire and found a spot amongst the field of long grass fringing the road, far enough away to be out of earshot. Reva sat on the grass cross-legged as Al Sorna crouched nearby, meeting her gaze intently. “What do you know about your father’s death?” he asked. “Not what you’ve imagined. What do you truly know?”

“The Eleventh Book relates how he was mustering his forces at the High Keep to meet your invasion. You led an attack, using the Dark to find your way into the keep. He died bravely, but the Trueblade of the World Father was cast down by superior numbers and Dark skill.”

“In other words, nothing. Since there were no survivors amongst his followers, whoever wrote this Eleventh Book of yours wasn’t there. He wasn’t mustering an army. He was waiting, with a hostage, someone I cared about. He used her to compel me to disarm so he could kill me. And he didn’t die bravely, he died confused and maddened by something that made him kill his father.”

Reva shook her head. The priest had warned her many times it would be this way when she moved amongst heretics. They won so they get to write the story. But still the words needled her. Reluctant as she was to admit it, there was a truth to the Darkblade. He hid things, left many things unsaid, but still there was a basic honesty to him. And, unlike her unknowable father, she could actually hear his words. “You lie,” she said, forcing conviction into her tone.

“Do I?” His gaze was unwavering, holding her fast. “I think you know the truth in my words. I think you’ve always known it’s your father’s tale that’s the lie.”

She tore her gaze away, closing her eyes. This is his power, she realised. This is where his Darkness resides. Not in his sword, in his words. A clever trick, to speak a lie through a mask of truth and trust. “The sword,” she said, voice hoarse and thick.

“We were in the Lord’s chamber at the High Keep. My brother threw an axe that took him in the chest. He died instantly. I recall his sword tumbled off into the shadows. I didn’t take it, nor did I ever see any of my brothers or my men with it.”

“You said you knew where to find it.”

She knew the answer before he voiced it, but still the words cut her, worse than any stroke of the priest’s cane. “I lied, Reva.”

She closed her eyes. A fiery tremble covering her from head to toe. “Why?” was all she could say, the word spoken in the faintest whisper.

“Your people say I have the Dark. But that, as a much wiser soul once told me, is a word for the ignorant. It’s like a song, a song that guides me. And it guided me to you. It would have been so easy to lose you in the forest that first night, but the song told me to wait for you. Told me to keep you close, teach you what you hadn’t been taught by whoever sent you for me.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why you were only taught the knife? Not the bow or the sword, or anything that might have given you a chance against me? Given just enough skill to make you a threat, just dangerous enough to make me kill you. The blood of the Trueblade fallen to the Darkblade. A fresh martyr. There was someone else there that night when you came for me. My song found them when it found you. Someone followed you, waiting, watching. A witness, hungry for another chapter to the Eleventh Book.”

She rose to her feet and he rose with her. The sword shifted on her back, like a snake uncoiling for a strike. “Why?” she said.

“Your father’s followers need me. They need their great heretic enemy. Without me they’re just a group of madmen worshipping the ghost of another madman. You were sent in search of a thing that can’t be found, in the hope that I would kill you, birthing more hate to fuel their holy cause. Your only value to them is in your blood and your death. They care nothing for you, but I do.”

The sword came free of the scabbard, straight and true as an arrow as she flew towards him. He didn’t move, didn’t twist, didn’t dodge, just stood still, expression unchanging as the sword point pierced his shirt and flesh. Reva realised she was crying, a dimly remembered sensation from childhood, when the priest had first taken her and his beatings had seemed cruel. “Why?” she grated through tears.

The sword point had penetrated the shirt and inch of flesh. Only a small thrust and the Darkblade would be gone to his well-deserved eternity of torment.

“For the same reason I now deny my song though it screams at me to let you go,” he said, face and voice lacking any trace of fear. “For the same reason you can’t kill me.” His hand came up, slowly reaching out to caress her cheek. “I came back to this land to find a sister. Instead I found two.”

“I am not your sister. I am not your friend. I seek the sword of the Trueblade to unite all in the love of the Father.”

He gave a small sigh of frustration, shaking his head. “Your World Father is nothing more than a thousand-year-old collection of myth and legend. And if he did exist, his bishops say he hates you for what you are.”

The trembling grew to a shudder, making the sword vibrate in her grip. One small thrust . . . She reeled away, stumbling to the ground.

“Come with us, Reva,” he said, imploring.

She scrambled to her feet and began to run, through the shifting dark of the long grass, tears streaming back from her eyes, the sword blade flickering as her arms pumped, stifling a sob as his plaintive call echoed after her. “REVA!”