Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  “He is, Highness.” The knight rose and quickly remounted. “Allow me the honour of escorting you to his presence.”

  Baron Banders was waiting at the door to his home, unarmoured but holding a scabbarded long sword. Behind him a young woman stared up at Lyrna, clutching the hand of a lanky youth, who, despite his height, couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  “Highness.” Banders’s tone and expression were both carefully neutral as he sank to one knee before her. “I bid you welcome. My home is yours.”

  “And I’ll gladly stay the night, my lord,” she replied, slipping from Surefoot’s back to stride forward, extending a hand. “But I do require a promise from you first.”

  His eyes widened a little at the hand she placed before his lips, famously a sign of great favour she rarely bestowed, before pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Promise, Highness?” he asked, rising as she stepped back.

  “Yes, no banquets.” She smiled. “I should like only a quiet meal tonight, and the pleasure of your company of course.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  He introduced the young woman as Ulice, his ward, and the boy as Arendil, her son. No family names were offered but Lyrna’s eyes picked out the similarities between Banders’s and Ulice’s features with ease, the colour and set of their eyes were almost identical. The lack of a family name marked her as an unacknowledged bastard, though one enjoying her father’s care if not his name judging by the clothes she wore. Strangely the boy’s face showed only a slight similarity to his mother and none at all to his grandfather. His eyes were blue whilst theirs were brown and his hair, an untidy cascade of dark curls reaching to his shoulders, made a stark contrast to the sandy mane of his mother and the thinning grey crop adorning Banders’s pate.

  They ate a well-cooked but not lavish meal in the main hall, Davoka clumsily dismembering her food with the alien cutlery the servants placed beside her plate with every course. She eyed Lyrna’s actions closely, attempting to copy her grip on the various utensils, mostly without success.

  “Eat however you wish,” Lyrna told her. “There will be no offence.”

  “You learned my ways,” Davoka replied, frowning in concentration. “I learn yours.”

  “You speak Lonak!” Arendil exclaimed, staring at Lyrna in open astonishment. Banders thumped a hand onto the table and the boy quickly added, “Highness.”

  “Speaks it better than me, sometimes,” Davoka said, chewing a mouthful of quail. “Knows words I don’t.”

  “The princess’s accomplishments are a great example,” Ulice said. She had a shy demeanour, almost fearful, but the gaze she offered Lyrna was rich in honest admiration. “And now she brings a peace that has eluded men for centuries. Would that all ladies could be so accomplished.”

  “I hear it’s a hard country north of the pass,” Banders said. “Never been there meself. Fought plenty of Lonak though.” His gaze shifted to Davoka, who grinned back as she chewed.

  “Thankfully, those days are now behind us,” Lyrna said. She lifted her goblet, raising it in a formal toast. “Will you drink with me, my lord? To peace?”

  Banders’s smile was faint but he lifted his goblet readily enough, drinking as she did. “Peace is always welcome, Highness.”

  “Indeed. It also seems to be a concern for your Fief Lord. I had occasion to meet him on the road.”

  Ulice’s fork made a loud clatter as she dropped it onto her plate. She blanched as Lyrna’s gaze swung to her, looking down, now visibly pale.

  “Are you well, my lady?” Lyrna asked her.

  “Forgive me, Highness,” she replied in a whisper. Next to her, Arendil reached out to clasp her hand, face drawn in worry.

  “Perhaps, Highness,” Banders said in a somewhat hard tone, “talk of the Fief Lord can wait until after dinner. Such a subject has a tendency to turn the stomach.”

  The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, save for Davoka’s queries about the food placed in front of her. “Jellee?” she said, prodding the quivering castle-shaped dessert with a spoon. “Looks like snot.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “I’m sure, my lord,” Lyrna said, “you require no lecture on the Realm’s recent troubles.”

  They were in the main hall, alone save for a pair of wolfhounds, both of whom seemed to have taken a liking to her, laying their heads on her knees as she sat beside the great marble fireplace. Banders stood by the mantel, his expression still guarded but she could see the anger in him. “No, Highness,” he replied. “I surely do not.”

  One of the wolfhounds gave a loud huff and she ruffled the fur behind his ears. “With the attempt on Tower Lord Al Bera’s life there may be more discord ahead,” she said. “Renfael has been largely free of the riot and lawlessness seen in the wider Realm. I assume you agree it would be best if it remain so.”

  “I seek no discord. Only to preserve what is mine.”

  “By traducing the reputation of your Fief Lord?”

  “His reputation was sullied beyond redemption years ago, even before the war. I speak the honest truth, and only when asked.”

  “And how often are you asked?”

  Banders picked up a poker and prodded at the coals in the fire with quick, hard jabs. “There are many who find the thought of being ruled by that man a stain on their honour. If a knight comes to me for honest counsel, should I turn him away?”

  “You should seek to preserve the King’s peace. Your standing in this fief, and the Realm, is very high. No other knight enjoys such regard. But high standing brings responsibility, asked for or no.”

  He looked down, reminding her once again of Ulice and her obvious parentage, but not her son with his long dark curls. Only to preserve what is mine . . .

  “Why have you not acknowledged your daughter?” she asked. “Or your grandson?”

  Banders straightened, keeping his gaze averted. “I . . . do not grasp your meaning, Highness.”

  “You have no wife, no other children. Your daughter, born outside the bounds of marriage or no, is still your blood. And clearly you cherish her greatly. Yet you withhold your name.”

  He rose from the fire and turned away, hands clasped behind his back. “These are private matters . . .”

  “My lord, I have travelled too many miles and seen too much to suffer the burden of petty courtesies. Please answer my question.”

  He gave a heavy sigh and turned back, meeting her gaze, his face more sorrowful than angry. “Ulice’s mother was . . . of mean station, a miller’s daughter. I knew her from childhood, my father was always too wrapped up in his gaming and his whores to offer more than the laxest discipline. So I was free to associate with whomever I wished, and do as I pleased. And as I grew to manhood it pleased me greatly to make Karla my wife. But, for all his loose ways and disregard for propriety, my father would have none of it. That the daughter of the mill should bear the next heir to his lands and titles, those he hadn’t pissed away on cards or women that is. Unthinkable. When he died I hoped for a more sympathetic reply from Theros, but the old Fief Lord believed in the sanctity of knightly blood with all the vehemence others afford to the Faith. So, I gave up my entreaties and Karla and I lived together in this house as man and wife, though never formally joined. She was taken from me when Ulice was born, I have never sought another.”

  “Your grandson?” Lyrna asked. “Ulice seems young to be a widow.”

  Banders’s expression hardened once again. “Is it Your Highness’s habit to ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

  Dark hair, dark blue eyes . . . I will of course, make provision for any dependents. “Lord Darnel.”

  “Ulice was young,” Banders went on. “Barely fifteen, brought to join me at the Fief Lord’s holdfast. Darnel and I were never friends, he saw his father’s regard for me and hated it, for Theros had never shown him more than disappointed scorn. H
is pursuit of my daughter was revenge, though she didn’t see it as such, head full of the girlish notion that all knights are heroes. So when the handsome son of the Fief Lord professed love to her, why would she not believe him? He cast her aside of course, when she told him she was with child, laughed at her, and at me when I brought the matter to Theros. He beat the boy bloody, as was his wont, right there in the Lord’s chamber in front of all the ladies and retainers. Beat him until it seemed he’d killed him. Sadly, he hadn’t. I left the lord’s service the next day, took my daughter home and raised my grandson. I sought some recompense at the Summertide Fair a few years later, I believe you were there that day. I’d have had it too if one of his retainers hadn’t thumped me from behind with a mace.”

  “Darnel has never married,” Lyrna recalled.

  “And fathered no other children. None that are known in any case.”

  “So if you were to acknowledge his mother, Arendil becomes of noble birth. A noble son with the Fief Lord’s blood. A claimant to the Lord’s Chair.”

  “Darnel came here, shortly after I returned from the war, demanding his son by right. I told him he had no son. His retinue was only twenty strong, all callow youth. His old retainers had died to a man at Marbellis. I had over fifty knights at hand, all veterans of the desert. It pains me greatly that I didn’t decide to settle the matter then and there.”

  “He hasn’t abandoned his claim then?”

  Banders shook his head. “He wants his heir within his own grasp, either to be moulded into another monster or discarded as he sees fit. But if I give Arendil my name, it’s as good as an open claim to the Lord’s Chair. Renfael will go to war.”

  “Then I thank you for your restraint.”

  “It will not be I who sunders this fief, Highness. But, should it happen, with the King’s help, I can at least heal it. Our Fief Lord can only inflict wounds, not heal them.”

  She was tempted to caution his tongue, but she had drawn the truth from him with impolite insistence after all. “There can be no war in this fief,” she said. “Not at any cost. You understand?”

  He looked back at the fire and gave a tense nod.

  “I ask for patience, my lord, and forbearance of difficult duty. Tomorrow Arendil will accompany me to Varinshold where I will counsel the King to offer him royal patronage. He will receive education and undertake service to the Crown, far beyond the reach of his father. His mother is free to accompany him if she wishes, I shall certainly be glad of pleasant company at the palace.”

  “This estate is their whole world,” Banders said, voice soft. “Having seen more of the world beyond it than I would ever have wished, I dreamt that I might spare them the sight of it.”

  Lyrna patted the wolfhounds a final time and rose from the chair, drawing a whine of protest from the larger of the two. “The price of noble blood is that we do not choose our paths in life, just the manner of walking them. I shall retire, my lord. You will wish to speak to your family.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  She had expected tears from Ulice but her gratitude was a surprise. “Wisdom and compassion,” she said the next morning, fighting a fresh bout of sobs as they said farewell on the gravel pathway before House Banders. “May the Departed preserve you always, Highness.”

  Lyrna reached out to grasp her arm as Ulice began to bow. “Enough of that, my lady. I do wish you would come with us.”

  “Fath—the baron needs me.” Ulice wiped her eyes with both hands, forcing a smile. “I can’t leave him here all alone. And a mother should know when to send her son forth, don’t you think?”

  Lyrna squeezed her arm. “I do indeed.”

  “May I crave a promise, Highness?” Ulice went on before Lyrna could move to mount Surefoot. “You have already done more than I could ever . . .”

  “Just ask,” Lyrna said, then smiled as the woman blanched at her tone. “Please.”

  Ulice came closer, speaking in a whisper. “Never let the Fief Lord take him. Hide him, send him far across the sea, but do not ever let him fall into his father’s hands.” The woman’s apparent timidity was gone now, her face a mask of maternal fury.

  Lyrna clasped her hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek, whispering close to her ear. “I’ll see the raping bastard dead before he gets within a mile of your son. You have my word.”

  Ulice stifled a gasp of relief and stepped back, extending a hand to Arendil who stood scowling next to his grandfather. “Come, bid your mother farewell.”

  His mother may have been overflowing with gratitude, but Arendil was a picture of sullen, adolescent resentment. “Does it have to be now?” he said in a dull voice. “Why not in the winter, or next year?”

  “Arendil!” his mother snapped, extending her hand again.

  The boy’s scowl deepened and he seemed about to speak again when his grandfather’s knee prodded him forward. “Don’t insult Her Highness with tardiness, boy.”

  Davoka trotted her pony closer, leading a horse by the reins, the fine grey mare the regiment’s Lord Marshal had offered Lyrna at the pass. “Here,” she said, tossing the reins to Arendil. The boy looked down at them, his lips curling. “Got my own horse,” he said.

  “Perhaps it is a little too big for him,” Lyrna said to Davoka. “Do we have something more suited to a child?”

  “I can ride it!” Arendil retorted, putting a foot into the stirrup and hauling himself into the saddle with practised ease. “Just not mine, is all.”

  Ulice went to his side, clasping his hand and pressing a kiss to it. After a moment Banders came forward and gently pulled her away. Lyrna saw the flush of Arendil’s cheeks and turned away. “Baron! My lady!” she said, raising her voice to ensure the surrounding cavalry could hear. “My thanks for your hospitality. Rest assured your orphaned ward will receive the finest education at the King’s court.”

  Banders put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close as Lyrna turned Surefoot and led the regiment from the estate.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  They made good time and were encamped on the northern fringes of the Urlish three days later, Lyrna and Davoka engaging in the now-nightly ritual of knife throwing. The Lonak woman had obtained an additional brace of knives, presumably from some unsuspecting brother at the pass, which enabled Arendil to join in, though his lack of skill was obvious.

  “Boy hasn’t been taught to fight,” Davoka observed as Arendil’s latest throw went wide of the cleaved log they were using as a target.

  “I have!” Arendil replied. “I can ride and use a lance and a sword. Grandfather taught me. Every day since I was eight. I even have my own armour, though I wasn’t allowed to take it.”

  “Armour,” Davoka scoffed, sending a knife close to the centre of the log. “The steel-bellies were always easy to kill, just had to wait for them to camp. Only dangerous when they had something to charge at.”

  “You can choose some armour when we get to the palace,” Lyrna assured Arendil, her own throw smacking into the upper edge of the log. “We have endless corridors full of it, rack upon rack of swords too. It always struck me as odd that the Realm Guard cost so much to arm when we had so many swords going to waste as ornaments.”

  “Grandfather has lots of swords too, spears as well. He brought them back from the desert war.”

  “Does he talk of it?” Lyrna asked him. “His time in the war.”

  “Oh yes, though it makes him sad sometimes. The betrayal of Lord Al Sorna weighs on him. He says if the army had known of it, every man would have stayed and died to stop the Alpirans taking him, even the Cumbraelins.”

  Lyrna decided she liked him then, the openness and disregard for titles were a quiet delight, though they would make him easy meat at court. And as for Davoka . . .

  “It is not a good place,” she told the Lonak woman that night.

  They sat by the campfir
e, Arendil sleeping soundly in his tent. Davoka sat on her wolf fur, long legs stretched out, cutting strips of dried beef into her mouth with a hunting knife. “Dangerous?” she asked in Realm Tongue. Lyrna had noted it was almost all she spoke now.

  “In many ways, most unknown to you. The people there lie as if it were a virtue. Your closeness to me will arouse suspicion and envy in some. Others will seek to turn it to advantage. You must keep a guard on your tongue, and do not look for trust.”

  Davoka grinned as she chewed. “If I have your trust, I need no other.”

  “You may call me queen, sister. But I do not rule here; at the palace my counsel is tolerated, discarded or accepted as my brother sees fit. I fear my trust will not be enough to spare you the cruelties that await us there.”

  “It’s your home, yet you speak as if you hate it.”

  Hate it? Was it possible to hate a place she knew so completely? A place drained of mystery in childhood. But there had been so many faces over the years, so many lost to the noose or the wars. Lord Artis, power-greedy fool though he had been, she had always appreciated his pragmatism. Fat Lord Al Unsa and his clumsy dancing, as corrupt as a man could be yet he always made her laugh. And Linden, poor loving, idiot Linden . . . And Vaelin.

  “Perhaps I do,” she admitted. “But there is nowhere else for me.”

  “Cannot your brother rule without your counsel?”

  “He certainly tries to, though I’m loath to abandon him even so. Perhaps one day, when the Realm is calmer, then I’ll find another home.”

  Davoka grinned. “Plenty of space at the Mountain.”

  Lyrna laughed. “I doubt the Mahlessa would welcome my presence.” But there is always the Northern Reaches . . .

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “This forest is very old,” Davoka said, eyeing the dense woodland fringing the road with evident unease. Lyrna had noted her dislike of forest before, the constricting trees were a stark contrast to the tundra and mountains she knew so well. “I can smell the age of it.”