Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  “This is our guide?” she asked Sollis.

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

  “Did she have cause to attack the brother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What did she say?” Lyrna asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Kill her.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am a princess, not a queen.”

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

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

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

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

  ◆ ◆ ◆

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

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

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

  “But you are of her household?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Never forget, her father’s words, spoken to a little girl many years ago as she pretended to play with her dolls. A man who asks for advice is either indulging in the pretence of consideration or too weak to know his own mind.

  To be fair Malcius always knew his own mind when it came to one thing: bricks and mortar. “I will m
ake this a land of wonders, Lyrna,” he told her once, laying out his grand plan for a reborn western quarter of Varinshold, broad streets and parks replacing narrow alleys and slums. “This is how we secure the future. Give the people a Realm fit for living, not merely existing.”

  She loved him, it was true, a fact she had demonstrated in the most terrible manner. But her dearest brother was the most colossal fool.

  “How many men do you have, Queen?” Davoka asked her abruptly.

  Lyrna blinked in surprise. “I . . . have fifty guardsmen as my escort.”

  “Not guards. Men . . . Husbands you call them.”

  “I have no husband.”

  Davoka squinted at her. “Not one?”

  “No.” She took a drink of wine. “Not one.”

  “I have ten.” The Lonak woman’s voice dripped with pride.

  “Ten husbands!” Nersa said in astonishment.

  “Yes,” Davoka assured her. “None of them with more than one other wife. No need when married to me!” She laughed and thumped the table, making Nersa jump.

  “Guard your tongue, woman!” Lord Marshal Al Smolen growled at her. “Such talk is not fit for Her Highness’s company.”

  Davoka rolled her eyes, reaching for a chicken leg. “Merim Her.” She sighed. Sea scum, or debris swept onto the shore, depending on the inflection.

  “How many days to the Mountain of the High Priestess?” Lyrna asked her.

  Davoka clamped the chicken leg into her mouth and held up all ten fingers then repeated the gesture.

  Twenty more days in the saddle. Lyrna suppressed a groan and reminded herself to ask Nersa for some more salve.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Jullsa cried and begged to be allowed to stay. Lyrna gave her one of the bluestone-inlaid silver bracelets she kept for such occasions, a purse of ten golds and thanked her for her service, assuring her she would write to her parents in the most glowing terms and that she was always welcome at court. She walked to Sable as Nersa soothed her weeping friend.

  “You do right, Queen,” Davoka said from the back of her sturdy pony. She was dressed in a thick wolf fur and carried a long spear with a triangular blade of black iron, the sharpened edges bright in the rising sun. “That one’s weak. Her children will perish in their first winter.”

  “Call me Lyrna.” She hauled herself into the saddle. The riding gown was pleated from waist to hem to allow her to ride full saddle but she found it still too constricting for comfort.

  “Lerhnah,” Davoka repeated carefully. “What does it mean?”

  “It means my mother was fond of her grandmother.” She smiled at Davoka’s confusion. “Asraelin names don’t mean anything. We name our children on a whim.”

  “Lonak children name themselves.” Davoka shook her spear. “Named myself when I took this from the man I killed.”

  “He had wronged you?”

  “Many times. He was my father!” She laughed and spurred her pony forward.

  The fortifications of the Skellan Pass were a complex maze of walls and towers, each great stone barrier angled so as to funnel any attacking force into a tight killing space. Lyrna admired the intelligence behind the design, the way it allowed for continuous defence even when one part of the fortifications had fallen to an enemy, the towers and walls arranged in ascending heights depending on how deep they were in the pass.

  Sollis led them through ten gates, each protected by a thick iron portcullis that had to be hauled up to allow egress. Despite the strength of the defences she could see the truth of his words; there were too few brothers to man the fortifications. She saw Davoka’s narrowed gaze as she surveyed the walls and knew she was coming to the same conclusion. Is this all a ruse? Lyrna thought. A design to place a spy here to report on the state of the defences.

  She quickly discounted the thought, recalling the shrewd-eyed brother’s warnings about the omniscience of the Lonak this far north. They know how weak we are here, yet instead of attacking, the High Priestess sends word that she wants to talk peace, but only to me.

  It took over an hour of tortuous winding through pathways between the walls and gates, built so narrow as to allow only one horse to pass at a time, before they finally emerged on the northern side of the pass. The rain had abated today and the sun shafted through the clouds, curtains of light descending on the mountainous dominion of the Lonak. The peaks stretched away into the distance, formidable, blue-grey monsters of granite and ice.

  Davoka raised her head to the sky, breathing deep then exhaling in a rush. Clearing the stench of us from her lungs, no doubt, Lyrna surmised.

  The Lonak woman guided her pony to the head of the column, taking the narrow, rock-strewn path descending to the floor of the valley beyond. She gave no instruction or gesture, beginning the descent without preamble, seemingly expectant that they would follow without question. Lyrna saw the suspicion on Smolen’s face and gave him a nod of assent. She could tell he was biting down words of argument as he barked a command to his men.

  They journeyed for another four hours, tracking over an array of valley and hillside interspersed with small patches of pine forest. Lyrna found there was a stark beauty to be found this side of the pass, the grey monotony of the country north of Cardurin replaced with a land of shifting hues, ever-changing skies allowing the sunlight to paint the rocky outcrops and heather-clad hills with a varied palette, rich in colour and very pleasing to the eye. Perhaps this is why they fight so hard to keep it, she thought. Because it’s beautiful.

  When the Lonak woman finally called a rest Nersa placed a silken pillow on a patch of heather and presented Lyrna with a luncheon of chicken and raisin bread, together with a goblet of the dry Cumbraelin white she liked so much. Dessert consisted of a selection from their diminishing supply of chocolate fancies.

  “Look like rabbit turds,” Davoka said, giving one of the sweets a suspicious sniff. She had hunkered down to join their lunch without asking permission. It seemed the Lonak shared food without favour or propriety when on the march.

  “Try one,” Lyrna said, popping a fancy into her mouth. Rum and vanilla, very nice. “You’ll like it.”

  Davoka took a cautious bite of the sweet, her eyes widening in instant delight, which she was quick to conceal, muttering a phrase in her own language as she frowned in self-reproach. Comfort makes you weak.

  “You carry a weapon,” she said, pointing to the trinket hanging on a chain around Lyrna’s neck. “Can you use it?”

  Lyrna held up the trinket. A plain throwing knife of the type commonly used by the Sixth Order, little bigger than an arrowhead. It was the least ornate piece of jewellery in her entire extensive collection, and the only one worn with any regularity, at least when she was safely away from the eyes of the court.

  “No,” she said. “It’s just a keepsake. A gift from . . . an old friend.” Father, I beg you . . .

  “No use carrying a weapon you can’t use.” Faster than anyone could give thought to stopping her, Davoka leaned forward and hooked the chain and knife over Lyrna’s head. “Here, I show you. Come.” She rose and walked towards a small pine growing near the edge of the trail.

  Nersa rose to her feet in outrage. “You insult Our Highness’s person! The Princess of the Unified Realm does not sully herself with martial pursuits.”

  Davoka gave her a look of total bafflement. “This one speaks words not in my head.”

  “It’s all right, Nersa.” Lyrna got to her feet, calming the lady with a touch to the arm, speaking softly. “We need to make all the friends we can here.”

  She followed Davoka to the pine. The Lonak woman detached the knife from the chain with a sharp tug and held it up to the sunlight. “Sharp, good.” She moved in a blur, the knife spinning from her hand to bury itself in the pine trunk.

  Lyrna glanced over to where Sollis sat with his two brothers. He watched t
he scene with no sign of amusement on his face. She noted he had placed his bow within reach, an arrow notched to the string.

  “You try, Lerhnah.” Davoka returned from the pine having worked the knife loose from the bark.

  Lyrna looked at the knife in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. All the years she had owned it she had never once attempted to use it for its true purpose. “How?”

  Davoka gestured at the pine. “Look at the tree, throw the knife.”

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Then you miss. Throw again and miss. Again and again until you hit. Then you know how.”

  “It’s really that easy?”

  Davoka laughed. “No. Really hard. Learning any weapon really hard.”

  Lyrna looked at the tree, drew her arm back and threw the knife as hard as she could. Nersa and the guards spent a half hour searching before it was found amongst the surrounding heather.

  “We try a bigger tree tomorrow,” Davoka said.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  They covered what felt like a hundred miles by nightfall, but Lyrna knew it was closer to twenty. Davoka chose a campsite atop a rocky rise overlooking a small vale, a position both Sollis and Smolen pronounced defensible on all sides. Smolen organised his men in a perimeter around the camp, with Sollis and his two brothers no more than ten feet from Lyrna’s tent. Dinner was roasted pheasant with the last of the raisin bread, a treat Davoka seemed to enjoy greatly, albeit without any words of appreciation.

  “So, Lerhnah,” she said when the meal was complete, squatting in front of the fire, hands raised to the warmth. “What stories do you offer?”

  “Stories?” Lyrna asked.

  “Your camp, your stories.”

  There was a gravity to the Lonak woman’s voice as she spoke the word “stories,” similar to how some of the more devoted Faithful spoke the word “Departed.” Lyrna’s researches had contained numerous references to the respect the Lonak had for history, but she hadn’t realised it approached religious fervour.