Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The journey back to the Skellan Pass took the better part of two weeks, Davoka choosing an easier but longer route than the varied paths that brought them to the Mountain. Lyrna had offered to take Kiral with them but the Lonak woman refused. “Better cared for at the Mountain.”

  “But you only just got her back,” Lyrna objected. “Don’t you want to stay a while? You can join me at court at any time.”

  Davoka shook her head. “The Mahlessa commands,” was all she said.

  In the evenings they would collaborate in translating The Wisdoms of Reltak, although Davoka found his verses somewhat troubling. “‘Divinity retains the appearance of insight,’” she read one evening, brows creased with a deep frown. “‘When in reality it celebrates ignorance. Its tenets are so much clay, and when the clay sets, it becomes dogma.’”

  She looked at Lyrna over the top of the volume. “I don’t like this book.”

  “Really? I find it rather charming.”

  In the mornings Davoka would tutor her with the throwing knife, something they had neglected on the journey north. Brother Ivern soon joined in, finding a thin but broad piece of wood to use as a target. Sometimes he would toss it into the air, sending his own knives into the centre with a disconcerting speed and accuracy.

  “I was always the best at toss-board,” he said. “Won more knives than any novice brother my age. Only Frentis could hope to match me.”

  Frentis. A name Lyrna knew, her brother had spoken it many times. “You knew Brother Frentis?”

  “We were in the same group at the Order House, Highness.”

  “The King praises his courage highly. He said Untesh would have fallen on the first day if not for Brother Frentis.”

  Ivern gave a sad smile. “That sounds like him. After the Test of the Sword he was sent to the Wolfrunners and I was sent here. I’m ashamed to say I was jealous, thinking him the lucky one.”

  As the days passed she began to improve with the knife, finding the target with greater frequency, seeing the truth in Davoka’s words: Throw again . . . Again and again until you hit. Then you know how.

  On the last morning, with the pass only one day’s ride away, as Ivern’s board fell to earth with her knife embedded in the centre, she could finally say she knew how.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Their return to the pass was greeted with some celebration and no small amount of surprise. The garrison had grown with the addition of a full regiment of Realm Guard cavalry, ordered by the King to venture into the Lonak Dominion in search of her. Fortunately, they had arrived the day before and preparations for their unwise expedition were far from complete.

  “But you were attacked, Highness,” the regiment’s Lord Marshal objected when she told him to be ready to escort her south the next day. “Surely, the savages require some punishment. I would consider it an honour . . .”

  She held up the scroll. “We are now at peace with the Lonak, my lord. Besides, the only punishment you’ll find north of the pass will be your own.”

  Her gaze was drawn to Brother Sollis, noting the way he straightened as he received news from one of his brothers. He caught her eye and came over. “Tidings from the Realm, Highness. It seems there was an attempt on the life of Tower Lord Al Bera. He lives but is grievously wounded. Witnesses lay the blame on Cumbraelin fanatics.”

  Lyrna stifled a groan. End one war and there’s another brewing at home. “What has the King commanded?”

  “The Battle Lord musters the Realm Guard with orders to root out the fanatics. Fief Lord Mustor has been ordered to render assistance but whether his people will do so is another matter.”

  “I see. Then I had best not linger. Lord Marshal, we leave within the hour.”

  The Lord Marshal bowed and strode away, shouting orders. Lyrna turned back to Sollis. “It seems our farewell must be brief, brother. I know there is no gift or favour I can offer that you will accept, so I can only offer my thanks, for my life and the success of this mission.”

  “It was . . . an interesting journey.” He hesitated. “There were other tidings, Highness. Lord Al Sorna has returned to the Realm.”

  Vaelin . . . “Returned?” She heard the shrillness in her voice and coughed. “How?”

  “The Emperor released him, apparently in gratitude for some heroic service. The details are a little vague. He arrived at Varinshold some weeks ago. It seems he has left our Order. King Malcius sent him to the Northern Reaches, as Tower Lord.”

  The Northern Reaches . . . For once her foolish brother had made the right move, although she found herself wishing he had waited a little before making it. “Please thank Brother Ivern for me,” she told Sollis. “Convey my regrets I have no more kisses to offer.”

  “I think one was more than enough, Highness.”

  “Where will you go?” she asked. “Now there is no-one here for you to fight.”

  “I go where my Aspect commands, Highness. And there’s always someone else to fight.” He gave a bow lower than any he had offered before, straightened and turned to walk towards the squat tower at the south end of the pass.

  A Realm Guard sergeant hurried up to her, leading a fine grey mare. “The Lord Marshal offers you this gift, Highness,” the man said, holding out the reins. “From his own stables.”

  Lyrna turned to scratch the nose of her pony. She had taken to calling him Surefoot in recent days, something Davoka seemed to find amusing and baffling in equal measure; the Lonak did not name animals they might have to slaughter for meat in the winter months. “I have a mount, sergeant,” she said, climbing onto the saddle, feeling the now-familiar bones of Surefoot’s back. “Shall we be off?”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  In Cardurin cheering people thronged the streets, bunting decorated the myriad bridges between the tall buildings and townsfolk cast flowers along her path through the city. When she reached the main square the city factor made a florid and somewhat long speech praising her as a peacemaker and deliverer. “Anything Your Highness commands, this city will provide,” he finished, with an elaborate bow.

  Lyrna shifted a little on Surefoot’s back as the crowd fell to expectant silence. “A bath, sir,” she said. “I should very much like a bath.”

  So she bathed in a suite of rooms at the factor’s mansion, twice, and chose clothes provided by the city’s finest dressmakers whilst Davoka looked on with a wary scowl. “Can’t ride in those,” she said. “Or fight.”

  “I’m hoping my riding and fighting days are over,” Lyrna replied. “This one,” she said to the serving girl, pointing at a long gown of dark blue chiffon and discarding her bathrobe. The girl gasped and looked away, blushing furiously. “Never seen a queen’s tits before,” Lyrna explained to a puzzled Davoka.

  She put on the dress and stood before a long mirror, taking satisfaction from the way it complimented her figure, though it was looser around the waist than she would have liked, the consequence of so many days in the saddle she supposed. She paused at the sight of her face, half expecting the journey to have left some mark on her, some hardening or weathering to her features, but saw only the same face she had always seen, except . . . Was there something new in the set of her eyes? An openness that hadn’t been there before?

  “You are . . . v-very beautiful, Highness,” the serving girl stammered, having recovered enough wit for flattery.

  “Thank you,” Lyrna said with one of her best smiles. “Please lay out the riding gown for the morning and pack these others for me.”

  She spent a few hours at the banquet the factor had convened in her honour, sitting through more speeches from various town notables and suffering the inane chatter of their wives. The only oratory she offered was a reading of the Mahlessa’s scroll, which she ordered be copied and sent to every corner of the Realm. From the speeches and conversation it was clear these people saw her as m
ore a victor than a peacemaker, as if she had won a great battle rather than merely survive a perilous journey to return with a piece of parchment. Watching the laughing, and increasingly drunken faces around her, she found herself pondering the Mahlessa’s words. They come, Queen, to tear it all down . . . Your world and mine.

  She sighed into her wine cup. Now I have the evidence, what to do with it?

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  They moved on the next morning, though the town factor had been vociferous in his entreaties that she stay a little longer. “Your greatness enriches our city, Highness.” Judging by the gifts they had attempted to bestow on her and the scale of the ongoing celebrations, Lyrna thought it more likely they would bankrupt themselves if she lingered another day. She did accept one thing, a copy of the Mahlessa’s scroll, inscribed on velum and illuminated with an image of her astride Surefoot as she arrived at the gates of the city, scroll in hand. Apparently the Scribes Guild had worked on it through the night and the ink was barely dry.

  They were two days south of Cardurin when one of the Lord Marshal’s scouts galloped up with news she had been dreading with every southward step. “Fief Lord Darnel comes to greet her Highness, my lord.”

  “An enemy, Queen?” Davoka asked, seeing Lyrna’s sudden tension.

  “You remember the man I told you about?”

  Davoka nodded as a line of horsemen appeared on the horizon. “He comes?”

  “No, his opposite.”

  Fief Lord Darnel had lost none of his good looks in the years since their last meeting, a blessedly brief exchange of greetings at her brother’s coronation. He wore no helm but was otherwise fully clad in armour inlaid with intricate blue enamel, riding an all-black stallion, long dark hair streaming back from his finely sculpted face, every inch the lordly knight. Nobility is a lie, her father had once told her. A pretence that high standing comes from anything more than money or martial prowess. Any dolt can play the noble, and as you’ll discover in time, daughter, it’s mostly dolts who do.

  “Princess!” Lord Darnel exclaimed, reining to a halt and dismounting to fall to one knee. Behind him his retinue of more than fifty knights did the same. “I bid you welcome to Renfael. Forgive my failure to offer you a suitable welcome, but word of your coming only reached me yesterday.”

  “Fief Lord,” Lyrna replied. She gestured at Davoka. “May I present, the . . . Lady Davoka, Ambassadress of the Lonak Dominion.”

  Darnel rose from his bow, squinting up at the Lonak woman with a poorly concealed grimace of distaste. “So it’s true then? The savages have finally yielded.”

  Lyrna saw Davoka’s hand tighten on the haft of her spear and was sorely tempted to let her act on her anger. The stories about Darnel’s actions during the fall of Marbellis were well-known, and none of them flattering.

  “Nothing has been yielded,” Lyrna told him. “We have agreed a peace. That is all.”

  “A pity. They always made such good sport. The first man I killed was a Lonak, if you could call such as him a man.”

  “I can’t let you kill him,” Lyrna told Davoka as her spear began to lower.

  “You learned their tongue?” Darnel said with a laugh. “Such accomplishment in one so lovely . . .”

  “Did you have other business, my lord?” Lyrna cut in. “We have many miles to cover, and the King awaits my safe return.”

  “There was a matter of some import, if we could talk alone for a moment.”

  She was tempted to refuse but the lack of civility already on display was making a poor show in front of so many Realm Guard and knights. “Very well.” She dismounted, murmuring to Davoka in Lonak, “Don’t stray too far.”

  They walked a short distance from the ranks of horsemen, Lyrna all too aware of so many eyes taking in the scene. “There is one in this fief,” Darnel began, “who plots against my Lordship, speaking falsehoods, impugning my honour at every turn. I think you would agree, Highness, that treason against me is tantamount to treason against the crown.”

  Lyrna avoided providing an affirmation, answering with a question, “And who is this malcontent?”

  Darnel’s mouth twisted around the word. “Banders!”

  “Baron Hughlin Banders? The most beloved knight in Renfael, and one of the few captains to return from the Alpiran war with any vestige of honour. This is the man you would name a traitor?”

  “I would rule my fief in the King’s name, as ordained by the tenets that bind this Realm in unity.”

  How could a man see so much and change so little? she wondered. It was still there, everything that had made her discount her father’s wishes in a heartbeat, in his face, his stance; the ingrained assumption of right, the knowledge of his own brilliance. What a dreadful child he must have been . . . and still is. “This is a free Realm,” she pointed out. “And all may voice their thoughts without fear of persecution.”

  “Not when such thoughts amount to sedition. The man holds court, Highness. Lords and commons go to him for counsel, though he holds no position in this fief. A beggar knight in fact.”

  “A beggar you would kill, my lord? Hardly a knightly ambition.”

  “Despite the lies you may have heard about me, I am not without mercy. Exile seems the most just sentence.”

  Also, the least likely to raise the commons against you. Darnel’s display of cunning annoyed her; she preferred him as a dolt.

  “Exile and forfeiture of property,” the Fief Lord added. “I will of course, make provision for any dependents.”

  There was a weight to these last words that gave her pause. Not just revenge on an old adversary, she decided. He wants more. “I will bring your concerns to the King,” she said, turning away. “Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”

  “Only my undying love.”

  The sincerity in his voice was disturbing, as was the intensity in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed before how darkly blue they were. Another place, another man, she might have found reason to linger in the sight of such eyes, but here she just wanted to mount her pony and ride away as fast as possible.

  “That matter was settled . . .” she began, keeping her voice low.

  “Not for me.” He stepped closer and she could tell he was resisting the impulse to reach for her. “Not for one day since. Have you never wondered why I remain unmarried? Why I strive every day to keep the King’s peace though justice cries out for me to gather my retainers and burn Banders’s holdfast down around him? Him and every other ungrateful wretch in this fief. For you, Lyrna. So that you might see me . . .”

  “I’ve seen you,” she said, voice hard and flat. “And I’ve seen enough.”

  His jaws clenched as he looked down, his voice thin but deep in regret. “That is your final word?”

  “My final word regarding you was spoken to my father eight years ago, and I see no reason to speak another.”

  When he raised his face the sincerity of his affection remained, albeit dimmed by anger. “If your brother had died at Untesh, you would be queen now. It must have been very affecting to see him return safely home.”

  “I assure you, if my brother had perished, you would have been on the first ship back to the empire, presented in chains to account for your crimes.”

  “Crimes?” He laughed, harsh and short. “You talk of crimes, as if war is a game, as if rules mean anything in a slaughter, as if they have ever mattered for us, Lyrna. I see you.” He came closer still, dark eyes intent and questing. “I see you, the face you hide from the court and the commons. But I see it, because I see it in me, and I see everything we could be. A union between us would see the whole world at our feet in a decade.”

  “When did it happen?”

  He frowned. “Highness?”

  “When madness supplanted mere cruelty.”

  His face froze as if she had struck him, a rigid fury seizing him from head to toe.
Davoka’s pony gave a loud snort as she walked him within a spear throw of the Fief Lord.

  “I believe,” Darnel grated, “Al Sorna has returned to the Realm, and no longer enjoys the protection of the Sixth Order. A challenge can be made and accepted. Tell me, would you prefer his head or his heart as a tribute?”

  “It is my fervent hope, my lord, that you make such a challenge. Then I’ll be able to choose my tribute from whatever remains of you. Perhaps I’ll send it to Marbellis as a small token of recompense.”

  He stood still for a moment, frozen in his anger, face quivering before he mastered himself. “I should like, Highness,” he said, his voice a soft rasp, “for you to remember the words you have said to me today. I should like you to remember them for a very long time.”

  “Then I regret to tell you, my lord, that I intend to forget them just as soon as you are out of my sight. A circumstance I expect you to bring about forthwith.”

  He could refuse, she had no power to command him. She could only expect. It was usually enough, but would it suffice for this handsome madman?

  He closed his eyes, breathing softly, a faint whisper coming from his lips, “Faith save me, but I had to try.” When he opened his eyes there was no more anger, not even any cruelty, just numb acceptance. He gave a bow, formal and correct in every way, turned to march back to his horse, mounting and riding away without another word.

  “Send me after him,” Davoka said, watching Darnel and his knights crest a rise and disappear from view. “It’ll be done tonight. His heart stops when he sleeps. No blame will arise.”

  “No,” Lyrna said, walking back to Surefoot.

  “I know men like him, Lerhnah. I’ve killed enough to know them very well. That one won’t stop until he’s made you bleed.”

  Lyrna mounted the pony, meeting Davoka’s eyes and giving a firm shake of her head. The Lonak woman gritted her teeth but said no more.

  “Lord Marshal Al Smolen,” Lyrna called, the Guard commander quickly riding to her side with a smart salute. “A change of course, my lord. We make for the holdfast of House Banders.”