Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “He is, Mahlessa.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ◆ ◆ ◆

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

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

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

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

  “Indeed I did.”

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

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

  “But far better to live with one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “A Dark ability to peer into the future.”

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

  “And what am I doing?”

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

  “A gift?”

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

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

  “What more would you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I can’t read it.”

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

  “Davoka?”

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

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

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

  “Men are so easily captured by your beauty?”

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

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

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

  “Mahlessa?”

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

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

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

  “What will?”

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

  ◆ ◆ ◆

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m glad to have met you, Helsa.”

  “Will you come to see me again?”

  “I hope so, one day.”

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

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

  “Alturk?” she asked Sollis.

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

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

  “Davoka?” Lyrna asked.

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

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

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

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