Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  “I didn’t know our forebears were such skilled builders,” Vaelin commented.

  “They weren’t,” the captain replied. “This is actually the second North Tower, built by my people when we were granted refuge here. The original was only half as tall and had a tendency to list.”

  Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to a large tapestry hanging behind the Lord’s Chair. It was about twelve feet long and five feet high, embroidered with a battle scene. An army comprising warriors clad in a variety of armour, and bearing varying forms of weaponry, advanced against a host of men and women clad in furs, all with a savage aspect, standing alongside great cats with teeth like daggers. Overhead birds of prey crowded the sky, an unfamiliar species larger than any eagle, their talons outstretched as they flew towards the polyglot army.

  “The great battle against the Ice Horde?” he asked Dahrena.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He pointed at the birds. “What are these?”

  “We called them spear-hawks, though in truth they’re a descendant of the eagle, bred for war. The ice people used them the way we use arrows.”

  He peered closer, picking out the figure of the former Tower Lord, Vanos Al Myrna, a great bear of a man pointing a war hammer towards the Horde. Next to him stood a smaller figure with long dark hair and a bow in hand. “This is you?” he asked in surprise.

  “I was there,” she replied. “As was Captain Adal. We all were, every Realm subject in the Reaches old enough to bear arms, fighting alongside the Eorhil and the Seordah. The Horde made no distinction between combatant and civilian, all hands were needed to fight them off.”

  “Especially since no aid was forthcoming from the Realm,” the captain added.

  Vaelin’s gaze lingered on the war-cats amongst the ranks of the Ice Horde and the blood-song swelled, turning his thoughts to the north-west. So, they found refuge here after all.

  Dahrena gave a sudden gasp and he looked up to find her regarding him with a wide-eyed stare.

  He raised an eyebrow. “My lady?”

  She flushed and tore her eyes away. “I’ll show you to your rooms, my lord.”

  “Please do.”

  The room was situated three floors up, high enough to afford a clear view of the town and surrounding country. A large fur-covered bed was set against the wall and a sturdy desk stood in front of the south-facing window. A stack of papers sat on the corner of the desk next to a quill and a full inkpot.

  “I’ve readied the petitions and reports for your perusal, my lord,” Dahrena said, gesturing at the papers. They were alone, the captain having offered to show Alornis her own rooms on the floor above. “Anything urgent is tied with a red ribbon. You may want to read the letter from the shipbuilders guild first.”

  He glanced at the documents, finding a red-ribboned letter on the top of the pile. “My thanks for your thoroughness, my lady.”

  “Very well. If you’ll excuse me.” She bowed and turned to the door.

  “What is it?” he asked before she could leave.

  She hesitated, turning back with obvious reluctance. “My lord?”

  “Your gift.” He sat in the chair in front of the desk, reclining with his hands behind his head. “I know you have one, otherwise you couldn’t have felt mine just now.”

  Her previously expressionless face became shadowed by fear, quickly replaced by anger. “Gift, my lord? I do not understand your meaning.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  They stared at each other in silence, she with resentment shining in her eyes, he realising the depth of distrust he would find here. “Where do I find my brother?” he asked when it became plain she was determined not to answer his question. “The blond fellow with the pretty wife and the war-cat.”

  The Lady Dahrena gave a faint snort of amused annoyance. “She said you would know. That there was no point in lying to you.”

  “She was right. Did she also tell you that you have nothing to fear from me?”

  “She did. But she knows you, I do not. And neither do the people your King has sent you to rule.”

  “I think you mean our King.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, sighing in suppressed anger. “Quite so, my lord. I misspoke. Sella and her husband can be found at Nehrin’s Point, a settlement twelve miles to the north-west. I know they will be pleased to see you.”

  He nodded, picking up the letter on the top of the stack. “What do they want? These shipbuilders.”

  “The merchants guild have reduced the stipend they pay for the upkeep of their ships. They say the drop in trade thanks to the Alpiran war has reduced their profits too much. The shipbuilders request that you reinstate the original price under the King’s Word.”

  “Do these merchants speak the truth?”

  She shook her head. “Trade in certain goods has reduced, but the price of bluestone has doubled since the war. More than enough to make up the losses in other commodities.”

  “The bluestone price has increased due to its rarity, I assume? King Janus once told me the seams were thinning every year.”

  Dahrena frowned. “I cannot account for what our late king told you, my lord. But the mines have continued to produce a steady flow of stone for years. In fact my father was obliged to slow production to prevent the price from falling. It’s doubled in price due to the fact that Realm ships can no longer carry it directly to Alpiran ports.”

  Vaelin swallowed a bitter laugh. Another strand to the old schemer’s web revealed as a lie. He opened the letter and signed his name to it, feeling her gaze on his hand as he laboured over the letters. “The shipbuilders’ request is granted,” he said. “What else do you have for me?”

  Her gaze moved from his clumsy signature to the stack of letters. “Well,” she said, moving to the desk and opening the next petition, “it seems Captain Adal needs to buy the North Guard some new boots . . .”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  They held a banquet for him in the Lord’s chamber that evening, a lavish but tense affair attended by the leaders of the town guilds, the senior brothers and sisters from those Orders maintaining mission houses in the Reaches, and a large number of merchants. They were the least taciturn, engaging the new Tower Lord in conversation whenever the opportunity arose, each working in a request for a private audience when time allowed. Dahrena had already warned him her father conducted all meetings in the presence of witnesses, a surety against accusations of graft, and he replied to every request with a statement that he saw no reason why such a wise practice should not continue.

  He found himself seated alongside the representatives of the Faith at the top table. Only the Second, Fourth and Fifth Orders had Houses in the Reaches. The Sixth had never established itself here, local security resting in the hands of the North Guard by royal command. Dahrena said the official reason was that the security of the greater Realm was deemed of higher importance in the Sixth’s already long list of responsibilities, but her father always suspected it had more to do with Janus’s keenness to keep them well away from his supply of bluestone.

  Vaelin was surprised to find Brother Hollun of the Fourth Order the most talkative of the Faithful. A rotund and jovial fellow with the permanent squint of the near-sighted, he talked at length about the history of the Reaches and his Order’s work in keeping accurate records of local trade, especially where bluestone was concerned. “Did you know, my lord,” he said, leaning closer to Vaelin than was strictly necessary, probably to get a clear look at his face, “more money passes through the three banks in this town in a month than in the whole of Varinshold in a year?”

  “I did not, brother,” Vaelin replied. “Tell me, how regular is your correspondence with Aspect Tendris?”

  “Oh”—the black-robed brother gave a shrug—“perhaps once a year a letter comes, usually with advice on how to ensure the Faith of my junior broth
ers doesn’t waver in these difficult times. At so far a remove from the Order House, we can hardly expect to occupy the Aspect’s attention when other matters are more pressing, I’m sure.”

  Sister Virula of the Second Order was less talkative. She was a thin woman of middling years with a somewhat morose air, her conversation limited to softly spoken complaints about Captain Adal’s refusal to provide an escort for her intended mission to the horse-tribes of the Eorhil Sil. “An entire nation barred from the Faith through simple lack of will, brother,” she told Vaelin, seemingly incapable of addressing him by his correct honorific. “I can assure you my Aspect is very displeased.”

  “Sister,” Dahrena said in a weary tone. “The last group of missionaries sent to the Eorhil Sil were found bound and gagged outside the tower gate. My father raised the matter at the autumn horse trade and the answer was quite clear; they don’t like to hear your bad talk about the dead.”

  Sister Virula closed her eyes, briefly recited the Catechism of the Faith under her breath and returned to her soup.

  The Fourth Order was represented by Brother Kehlan, a man of some fifty or so years with a serious look who regarded Vaelin with the same wary suspicion he saw on most faces around him.

  “Would I be right, brother,” he asked the healer, “in judging you the longest-serving member of the Orders in the Reaches?”

  “I am, my lord,” Kehlan replied, pouring himself some more wine. “Some thirty years now.”

  “Brother Kehlan came north with my father,” Dahrena explained, touching an affectionate hand to the brother’s sleeve. “He has been my tutor for as long as I can remember.”

  “Lady Dahrena has an excellent knowledge of the healing arts,” Kehlan said. “In truth she’s more my tutor these days than I am hers, what with all the curatives she brings back from the Seordah. They’re often remarkably effective.”

  “You visit with the Seordah, my lady?” Vaelin asked her. “I was given to believe they forbid entry to their forest.”

  “Not to her,” Kehlan said. “In fact I doubt there’s a path in the Northern Reaches she couldn’t walk in complete safety.” He leaned forward to meet Vaelin’s gaze, some wine sloshing from his overfilled cup. “Such is the respect and affection she commands here.”

  Vaelin gave an affable nod in reply. “Of that I have little doubt.”

  “Are the Seordah very fierce, Lady Dahrena?” Alornis asked. She was seated on Vaelin’s left and had said little all evening, clearly disconcerted by the unfamiliarity of the circumstance. “All I know of them are rather fanciful tales from the histories.”

  “No fiercer than I,” Dahrena replied. “For I am Seordah.”

  “I thought my lady was of Lonak descent,” Vaelin said.

  “I am. But my husband was Seordah, and so, by their custom, am I.”

  “You have a Seordah husband?” Alornis asked.

  “I did.” Dahrena looked down at her wine cup, smiling sadly. “We met when the Horde came out of the north and my father called for aid from the Seordah, he was amongst the thousands who answered. I would have married him the very day I met him but for father’s insistence I wait for my majority. After we were wed I lived amongst them for three years until . . .” She sighed and took a sip of wine. “The war between Lonak and Seordah has never ended. It raged long before your people came here and will no doubt rage for centuries to come, claiming many more husbands.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alornis said.

  Dahrena smiled and patted her hand. “Love once and live forever, so the Seordah say.”

  The sadness in her eyes stirred memories of Sherin, her face the day he had placed her in Ahm Lin’s arms, the hours he spent watching the ship take her away . . .

  “Might I enquire what plans my lord has for the morrow?” Brother Hollun said, calling his attention back to the table. “I have several months worth of records requiring the Tower Lord’s signature.”

  “I have business at Nehrin’s Point,” Vaelin replied. “I would like to introduce my sister to some friends I’m told reside there. We’ll see to the records when I return, brother.”

  Sister Virula stiffened at mention of the settlement. “Do I understand, brother, that you intend to visit the Dark Clave?”

  Vaelin frowned at her. “Dark Clave, sister?”

  “Just silly rumours, my lord,” Dahrena said. “The kind that always beset those with unfamiliar ways. The Reaches have ever been a refuge for exiles, people of differing faiths and customs, outlawed in their homelands. A long-standing tradition of the Tower Lord’s dominion.”

  “One not to be overthrown without very careful consideration,” Brother Kehlan said, downing what was probably his sixth cup of wine. “New blood enriches us, Vanos always said. Something you’d do well to remember.”

  Vaelin found he didn’t like the threat in the man’s voice, drunk or not. “Brother, if serving me is such an irksome task, you have my leave to return to the Realm at your earliest convenience.”

  “Return to the Realm?” Kehlan grew red in the face, getting to his feet, shaking off Dahrena’s restraining hand. “This is my realm, my home. And who are you? Some vaunted killer from the mad king’s failed war?”

  “Brother!” Captain Adal came forward, grasping the healer’s arm and pulling him away. “You forget yourself. Too much wine, my lord,” he said to Vaelin.

  “Do you have any notion of the greatness of the man you pretend to replace?” Kehlan raged on, tearing free of Adal’s grip. “How much these people loved him? How much they love her?” His finger stabbed at Dahrena who sat with eyes closed in despair. “You are not needed here, Al Sorna! You are not wanted!” He continued to rant as Adal and another North Guard hustled him from the chamber, leaving a taut silence in his wake.

  “And I thought this evening was destined to end without any entertainment,” Vaelin said.

  The words provoked only a small ripple of laughter, but it was enough to herald a return of conversation, albeit muted.

  “My lord.” Dahrena leaned close to Vaelin, speaking in hushed but earnest tones. “My father’s death was very hard on Brother Kehlan. The illness that took him was beyond his skill to heal. He has not been himself since.”

  “He spoke treason,” Sister Virula said, her voice a touch smug. “He said King Janus was mad. I heard him.”

  Dahrena gritted her teeth and pressed on, ignoring her. “His service to this land has been unmatched. The lives he has saved . . .”

  Vaelin rubbed at his temples, suddenly weary. “I’m sure I can forgive the drunken outburst of a grieving man.” He met her gaze. “But it can’t happen again.”

  She nodded, forcing a weak smile. “My lord is kind. And there will be no repetition of this, you have my word.”

  “I’m glad.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “My thanks for all your attention today, my lady. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I find myself sorely in need of rest.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “The Eorhil named him He Who Trails Fire When He Runs. On account of his mane.” The stable master smoothed a hand over the horse’s flank. It was a handsome beast, thickly muscled though not so toned as a well-bred Realm mount, but tall at the shoulder, his coat a dark russet brown save for his mane which had a tinge of red to it. “Not ones for short names the Eorhil. I just call him Flame.”

  “He’s young,” Vaelin observed, checking the horse’s teeth and noting the absence of grey in the hairs on his snout.

  “But smart as a whip and well trained, my lord,” the stable master assured him. He was a broad man in his thirties, Nilsaelin judging by his accent, sporting a patch over his left eye and naming himself only as Borun. He had greeted Vaelin’s early-morning appearance at the stables with brisk affability, absent any of the resentment the Tower Lord was becoming accustomed to.

  “He was traded from the Eorhil wh
en still a colt,” Borun said. “Was to be Lord Al Myrna’s next mount. Lady Dahrena thought it fitting he should come to you.”

  Vaelin scratched Flame’s nose, receiving a contented snort in response. At least this one won’t bite. “I’ll need a saddle. And a mount for my sister.”

  “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

  Alornis appeared as the horses were being led into the courtyard, yawning and swaddled in furs. Even in summer the Reaches retained a chill for much of the small hours. “How far is it?” she asked. There was a redness to her eyes that made Vaelin suspect she had partaken of more wine than she should the night before.

  “A few hours’ ride, usually,” Dahrena advised, climbing onto her own horse. “But we have a call to make first. I should like to show you one of the mines. If you are agreeable, my lord?”

  “Certainly.” He inclined his head at Alornis, then at her horse. She yawned again, muttered something and hauled herself into the saddle with an audible groan.

  As well as Orven’s guardsmen, they rode in company with Captain Adal and two of his men, taking the north road into heather-covered hills. The road had a well-maintained surface of hard-packed gravel and proved a busy route; they had to make way for several heavily laden carts along the way.

  “When my father first took on the Lordship it was just a narrow dirt track,” Dahrena said when Vaelin commented on the quality of the road. “The stone had to be carried to the dock on packhorses. He used the King’s coin to build the road and the King’s Word to make the merchants pay towards its upkeep.”

  They rode together at the head of the column. The mix of rigid neutrality and anger from the previous day seemed to have abated, but he could still sense a guardedness in her demeanour. Probably still worrying over the drunken healer, he thought.

  “You don’t intend to stay, do you?” he asked.

  She gave him a sidelong glance and he knew she was wondering what his song had told him, although his words came from nothing more than careful observation. “I had thought I might return to the forest,” she said. “For a time.”