Lady Knight (7 page)

“Vahl,” Riannon said.

That imperial bastard who killed so many men at Vahl, and who dealt Prince
Roland his fatal wounds, had used no mortal weapon. Riannon had almost died
because of such vile powers – and lived under sentence of death from those same
wounds. A sentence that only this sword held in abeyance.

“You are unhurt, sir?” Alan said. “John has the horses.”

“Get the heads,” Riannon said. “We must take them to the local lord to explain
how the men died.”

“Sir, my lord,” the merchant said, “let me give you the pick of my wares in
gratitude. Please –”

Riannon strode across the road and pushed through the undergrowth. She found a
tree as thick as her thigh. Using a two-handed grip, she scythed the sword in a
horizontal arc. The blade slowed as it bit into the wood but emerged on the
other side. She might have been cutting through a wax bier candle. The tree
toppled to the side with a splintering crash of breaking branches. Riannon
stared with disgust at her sword.

“You bitch,” she said. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

Riannon jammed the sword’s point into the fresh stump and removed her belt. The
scabbard must have some enchantment on it, too, or the sword would have cut
clean through it.

When Riannon shoved back onto the road, the merchant and his wife were still
thanking Alan.

“Give me my other sword,” Riannon said to her squire. “We must hasten to find
the lord before we regain the road north.”

Alan frowned. “North? But I thought your estate lay along this road, sir.”

“It does and will remain so, even though we do not visit it this day,” she said.
“I have pressing need to talk with Naer Aveline.”

Aveline inhaled deeply. From the earliest time she could remember, that pungent,
rich, humid smell of a forest represented power. Her grandfather and father had
been kings. They had ruled over men. Their power was of gold, blood, oaths, and
land. Not an insubstantial thing, the rule of kings. But a man claimed kingship
by right from the gods, no matter how much blood he spilled nor how many bribes
he paid to claw his way onto a throne. His grip on the hem of the robe of
divinity held him in place.

The true power, the one that smelled of rot and yet also the freshness of a
world renewed every day, belonged to the divine. Theirs was the power to unmake
mountains. To sink islands into the seas. To rain fire from the sky. It was old
and deep and eternal. And it, too, ran in Aveline’s veins, inextricably mingled
with the blood she inherited from a long line of mortal kings. She took no small
pride in being called to be a priestess. She would offer every drop of her royal
blood, strain every sinew, and use every ounce of will in proving herself worthy
of divine trust.

Aveline lifted her arms in a final supplication before turning to the kneeling
worshippers behind her. Most were the green-robed priestesses and aspirants of
the grove house. Lady Havelock and Lady Barrowmere, and their household, knelt
on the left side, farthest from the blessed stream. Aveline intoned a blessing
and signed the quartered circle in the air.

The senior priestess, having hosted Aveline on many previous occasions, arranged
a comfortably appointed chamber for the naer. The excellent supper she provided
for the enormous combined retinue did the order credit.

A messenger arrived as Aveline retired from the table. The dusty young man knelt
and dug a thick packet of parchment from inside his tunic. The black wax seal
bore the impression of a woman in clerical robes wearing a chaplet of leaves and
holding in one hand a staff with the head of a quartered circle and in the other
hand a ewer from which she poured water. The seal belonged to the matriarch of
the Order of the Goddess. Aveline accepted the packet herself.

“You’ve come from Matriarch Melisande?” Aveline said.

“Yes, Eminence,” he said. “Her Holiness instructed me to make all speed and
surrender this to your hands only.”

Aveline dismissed him to the care of one of the local priestesses. Aware of the
avid interest of the senior priestess, she strolled away to the chamber prepared
for her. She dispensed with the services of her clerks after one had lit lamps
for her. Alone, she opened the packet. She found a letter to her sister, the
queen. Aveline set that aside and unfolded the other sheet of parchment covered
with close lines of neat script in the handwriting of professional scribes.

She read through the usual greetings. In light of the recent accession of
Aveline’s sister to the throne, the matriarch expressed her understanding of the
need for Aveline to remain in Tirand. In such an unsettled time, it was
important for the new queen to have access to all possible spiritual counsel and
advice. None could be better suited to deliver that than her own sister, who –
though she might not enjoy a place on the queen’s privy council – would be able
to make the voice, and needs, of the order heard through less formal channels.
Accordingly, the matriarch saw no need for Aveline to travel to Rhân for the
convocation. To further free her to concentrate her efforts in her sister’s
realm, the matriarch relieved Aveline of her special legatine powers to the
court of King Fulk of Iruland.

Bitterly disappointed, Aveline stood to pace. In keeping her from attending the
convocation of mother-naers, the matriarch sought to exclude her from the
highest level of the order. At that gathering, Aveline could meet and attempt to
persuade the mother-naers who debated and voted on matters of policy and
doctrine. Their decisions would in turn influence the stance the matriarch of
the Goddess would take when the highest representatives of all four religious
orders met in the Quatorum Council. One of those issues should be a call for a
holy war. Aveline must do all in her power to ensure that it would be. That was
the Goddess’s will.

She wondered if the matriarch suspected her intentions. Since her elevation to
the highest office, Melisande had hidden her passivity and timidity behind the
false posture of feminine nurturing. Small wonder the Goddess’s servants were
held in such slight esteem amongst the other orders. Yes, the Goddess was Wise
Mother and Lady of Mercy and Healing, but she was also the powerful primeval
female half of Creation. She had a Dark Face she turned implacably to her
enemies. Women were vessels filled with all virtues, not just soft ones. Who
could be stronger, more tenacious, or fiercer to protect than mothers? Aveline
had no patience for the matriarch cravenly shying from this truth. The
convocation must be made to acknowledge the source of the strength of their
order. They must see that the ultimate goal rested in the Cave of the Pool and
the power lying dormant there. They must rid the world of heretics and
unbelievers. Consecrated women must raise their voices to call for holy war.

Could the old woman, or one of her supporters, have seen any hint of what
Aveline planned? Did the matriarch feel threatened by the prospect of being
prodded into action? But this crude stratagem would not stop Aveline. She had a
divine mission to see this come to pass.

Aveline tapped the parchment. King Fulk of Iruland, whose vassals’ domains
abutted the territories most recently swallowed by the last resurgence of the
Empire, was naturally most eager to end the truce and wage war on the infidel
enemy. The idea of having an army recruited for his aid from all over the
Eastern Kingdoms, and sanctioned by the four gods, could not fail to appeal to
any monarch. Fulk, who was a cousin of her late father’s, had already responded
positively to her overtures about a possible holy war. The matriarch acted too
late if she sought to keep Aveline from him. The representative the Irulandi
king would send as his official observer to the Quatorum Council would be primed
to lobby for crusade.

Aveline sat and reread the message. On balance, she was inclined to believe the
rescinding of her special authority had no stronger root than the old woman
clipping her wings. It was a demonstration of power and a notification that
Aveline had been noticed. So be it.

Aveline sat back and frowned at a lamp flame. Mathilda’s coronation had probably
come as a nasty shock to Matriarch Melisande. Few had believed that men would
accept a woman sovereign. Well, they had reckoned without Aveline. There were
always means and methods around human problems. It was merely a question of
finding the right lever, the right price.

Aveline needed to attend the convocation. She must persuade one of the
mother-naers who would accompany the matriarch to the Quatorum Council to
include Aveline in her entourage. If Aveline was present at the Quatorum
Council, she would be in a position to stiffen the resolve of members of her own
order. She could also communicate directly with her peers in the orders of
Atuan, Naith, and Kamet. The Patriarch of the Order of Atuan, god of war, would
need no persuading to put forth a call for a crusade. The followers of the other
two gods might require more convincing. How much easier they would be to sway if
they could be shamed with the taint of cowardice and weakness if the women of
the Goddess spoke with a determination to rid the world of unbelievers. Male
pride could be a weapon used against them for the good of all.

Once the Quatorum Council published a call for holy war, men would flock to take
the vow. Be they freeborn peasant, knight, lord, or king, men would fight
knowing their deaths on crusade would guarantee direct entry into Paradise.
Their act of dedicating themselves to the gods’ will absolved them of their
sins. Killing infidels served the cause of righteousness. Some, admittedly,
would have one eye on the loot and land to be gained from the reconquest of
Evriat. That the rewards could be both spiritual and temporal only added to the
incentive. Aveline did not see why avarice could not be used as a means to coax
sinners to noble purposes.

The Quatorum Council only met every fourth year. The next meeting was but a
handful of months hence in late autumn. She did not want to have to wait another
four years for the next opportunity.

Aveline drummed her fingers on the table. There must be someone who would, in
return for a gift of land or gold from her sister the queen, arrange for Aveline
to attend. She mentally ran through the list of the score of mother-naers on the
convocation. Which one had relations amongst Mathilda’s vassals who might be
grateful that her family enjoyed the financial goodwill of their liege lady?

Aveline remained preoccupied with this when she returned to the main hall. The
sound of singing and a lute greeted her. She paused to see Lady Eleanor playing
to a rapt audience. The song, Aveline noted as she strolled to join them, lacked
the lady’s usual vivacity. At the conclusion, the senior priestess offered
highly flattering remarks.

“My father told me that I could’ve earned my meat as a minstrel,” Eleanor said.

Her audience greeted this playful idea – of a noblewoman earning wages as a
performer – with a prudish horror that Aveline found amusing.

“Fortunately, Lady Barrowmere,” Aveline said, “your riches are not limited to
musical talents.”

“That’s true, madam,” Eleanor said. “I’m fortunate enough to be able to set
aside my amateur efforts and call upon a true artist to entertain us.”

Eleanor signalled to her minstrel. He bowed and launched into a long song. Lady
Cicely and most of the younger priestesses closely followed the romantic tale of
improbable deeds. They sighed often, and murmured dismay at the slightest
faltering of the hero. Some of the older priestesses looked scarcely less
susceptible. Aveline preferred Eleanor’s performance. Perhaps it was the soprano
voice. Or perhaps it had been that hint of sadness.

“My mother warned me strictly against unseemly public display,” Eleanor said to
Aveline. “I’d not considered myself in danger in a grove house.”

Aveline smiled. “It’d be a pity if you were to restrict your play to the
confines of your home and the ears of a husband.”

“Sadly, madam, it has been my experience that not all husbands appreciate
music,” Eleanor said. “For certès, no more than the sound of their own hunting
tales.”

“Perhaps it’s merely a question of acquiring the right husband.”

Eleanor’s expression didn’t noticeably change, but Aveline detected a wariness.

“Like yourself, madam,” Eleanor said, “there are those who prefer to remain
without husbands. As your late lord father also graciously accepted.”

Aveline nodded. She understood perfectly well what Eleanor implied about wishing
to pay to continue her widowhood. She would have to make enquiries about just
how extensive Lady Barrowmere’s land holdings were.

“Not all are suited to marriage, just as some find no solace in being alone.”
Aveline rose. “You sing prettily, Lady Barrowmere. Your melody was less
melancholy, though, when my cousin of Gast was with us.”

The surprise on Eleanor’s face lacked any artifice of concealment or disguise.
Aveline wondered about that as she retired to her chamber.

Riannon slowed her horse when she saw the clutter of horses, servants, wagons,
and Eleanor’s bright tent pitched in a fallow field on the west side of the
Great North Road. The day’s delay needed to track down the under-sheriff to
render her tale of the robbers had done little to sweeten her temper. She
dropped to the ground and yanked loose the ties that held the gift sword on the
back of her saddle. She stalked across to where Eleanor, Aveline, Cicely, and
their principal attendants sat partaking of a picnic dinner.

Eleanor smiled. Riannon nodded to her but immediately turned her attention on
her cousin.

“I take it that you found even less than you expected at Gast to entertain you,”
Aveline said.

“We must talk,” Riannon said.

Aveline cocked an eyebrow and looked poised to make a pointed observation.

“Now,” Riannon said. “You’ll excuse us, lady.”

Aveline’s amusement appeared to deepen as she passed her trencher to a servant
and rose. Eleanor watched with a quizzical frown.

“Did you lose your courtesy somewhere on the roadside?” Aveline said.

Riannon put a hand on Aveline’s elbow and propelled her clear of the ears of
those around the tent.

“No. I left bodies. Bodies in parts.” Riannon released Aveline and dropped the
gift sword on the grass at her cousin’s feet. “You lied to me.”

“Lied? What can you be accusing me of?”

“I cut men in two with that. I’ve cleaved with it a tree which should have taken
a half a dozen axe blows to fell. It is no blade of mortal steel. What other
magical properties does this sword have that you kept from me?”

“I made no secret of it being blessed,” Aveline said. “A gift from the Goddess.
You didn’t expect it to be something plucked from any old smithy? Or bought for
a few shillings at a small town fair? It’s the weapon worthy of being wielded in
the service of the Goddess. As for special properties, you know it keeps you
alive. You seem to have no qualms about benefiting from that.”

“You’d have me inflict such wounds on another. I will not do it.”

Aveline lifted a hand to Riannon’s face. Riannon caught her wrist and stopped
her fingers short of touching her scar.

“You’re hurting me,” Aveline said.

“Choose another for whatever you design. I cannot and will not use that sword.”

“What of your oath?”

“It was given in ignorance,” Riannon said. “You deliberately withheld from me
the true nature of what you gave me. Such an oath is not binding.”

“You’ve taken to study of the law? You do surprise me. I did not think you knew
your letters.”

Riannon wrenched Aveline’s wrist down. Aveline winced and lost all pretence at
amusement.

“You’ve been granted one of the Goddess’s rare gifts,” Aveline said. “It’ll help
you against her enemies. Most would fall over themselves to get some advantage
over their opponents. You have it. You’ll need it.”

Riannon released her as if she found herself holding a serpent. “My honour is
not for sale. No matter what else you coerce from me, you mistake the matter
entirely if you think you have that bought and paid for.”

Aveline rubbed her wrist, though she kept her gaze up on Riannon’s face. “How is
it honourable to let someone kill you when you have the means at hand of killing
him first?”

“I do not expect you, of all people, to understand.”

“I know you mean that as an insult, yet I take it otherwise when you talk of
such illogical ideas that are against all good sense. So, it’s probably for the
best that you are what you are, cousin, and I am a creature entirely different.
Tell me, does this mean that you forswear your oath of service? What of the debt
you owe?”

That was the crux of her dilemma. Her obligation went well beyond merely
swinging a particular weapon. Her commitment had been to serve the Goddess
against her enemies. Despite her burning sense of betrayal by Aveline, Riannon
had given her vow to the Goddess, not the priestess. She scowled down at the
sword.

“I’ll not use that,” Riannon said.

Aveline bent to pick up the sheathed sword. She offered it back to Riannon.
“There will be a time when you will need it.”

“No.”

Aveline shrugged. “You need to carry it. You cannot leave it in this field.”

There was the burr under the saddle. Riannon snatched the sword from Aveline’s
hands.

“You know nought of honour,” Riannon said. “But your divine mistress must. It’s
in that I place my trust. Not you.”

Later that afternoon, Eleanor slipped out of the noisy hall as soon as she
politely could. Lord and Lady Woodfort entertained the queen’s sister. Eleanor
knew them little. Her retinue found welcome at their castle because of the naer.
Normally she would have considered that all the greater obligation to make
herself agreeable and entertaining, and to acquire new acquaintance. Today she
needed to find Riannon.

A servant moved aside as Eleanor stepped out of the side door and into a passage
that led to the tower chambers and the solar. Which way might Riannon have gone?

Eleanor had been delighted with Riannon’s unexpected return at noon, but
whatever passed between Riannon and her cousin left her stony and
uncommunicative all afternoon. The most number of words she had strung together
had been to apologise for being poor company.

Eleanor pushed another door open and emerged into the bustling bailey. With no
breath of wind this summer evening, smoke from the busy kitchen building hung
thickly between the castle walls. Riannon would have a pallet in the hall to
sleep on, so there was no chamber in the keep, gatehouse, or towers she might
have retired to.

Eleanor caught sight of Hugh, her marshal. He informed her that he had seen
Riannon go into the shrine chamber in the gatehouse. Eleanor picked her way
across the bailey and up a narrow set of stone steps. By the light of a lamp
above the gilded scales of Kamet, Eleanor saw Riannon kneeling on a prayer mat.

Eleanor stepped inside and shut the door. Riannon looked around.

“I’ll leave if I intrude,” Eleanor said.

Riannon shook her head.

Eleanor made her obeisance to all four niches. “To Atuan, lord of gods. To
Kamet, giver of law. To Naith, bestower of bounty. To our Wise Mother. I humbly
present myself and beg your blessing.” She traced the quartered circle on her
breast and kissed her fingers.

Riannon offered no protest when Eleanor lowered herself to the mat beside her.
Her naked sword lay on the tiled floor. Eleanor arranged her skirts as
comfortably as she could under her knees, for the thin mat provided scant
cushioning.

“If there is aught I can do to help with what troubles you,” Eleanor said, “I
will.”

Riannon sighed and frowned down at her sword. “It’s all of my own doing.”

“That would certainly make it more uncomfortable,” Eleanor said. “But no less
susceptible to aid.”

Riannon grinned fleetingly. “Are you ever uncertain about anything, lady?”

“All too frequently. Something has made you doubt yourself?”

Riannon’s gaze flicked up from her sword to the anvil altar of Atuan, then
across to the wilted green boughs in the niche of the Goddess.

“I feel as though I’ve been given a prize that I’ve long coveted,” Riannon said.
“Only to find a crack in it.”

“Many things can still function though flawed. Imperfections can be mended.
They need not render something unusable or valueless. Do you believe the crack
is within yourself?”

“I have flaws beyond counting. You’re right to remind me that nothing is without
imperfection. I do still value what I’ve been given. And know there is truth and
purpose in my oath. No matter that it is tarnished.”

Eleanor wondered about the oath. “Where in that does the fault lie with you? To
me, it sounds like you’ve found yourself in a situation not of your making.
Which is all too familiar to anyone who has lived past the age of weaning. But
it’s not sound grounds for upsetting the surety you have in yourself. Rather,
you should be doubting the source of your problem.”

Riannon shook her head. “I’m accountable for what I do, no one else. After
death, when I stand before the gods, they’ll look into my heart, and mine alone,
to judge the worth of what I’ve done and the life I’ve lived. The task of
safeguarding my honour is mine. It’s childish of me to wish this should be easy
to do throughout the course of a life.”

“If so, then I’ve never met a mature person. Myself included. Though I’ve the
strongest suspicion that most of us select far easier paths through life’s
problems than you do, my friend.”

Eleanor put a hand on Riannon’s forearm. Riannon’s muscles tensed under her
fingers.

“I flatter myself that I can number you amongst my friends,” Eleanor said.
“Which seems presumptuous after so short an acquaintance. But I have rarely, if
ever, known someone with whom I’ve fallen into such an enjoyable and interesting
companionship.”

Riannon looked down at where Eleanor’s hand rested on her arm. The muscles under
Eleanor’s fingers remained taut.

“Have I misspoken?” Eleanor said. “Or presumed too much?”

Riannon shook her head. She set her free hand over Eleanor’s, to hold it in
place on her arm. Her inner turbulence worked close enough beneath her
protective surface that Eleanor could all but feel it. How the matter Riannon
had just alluded to connected with Naer Aveline and Riannon’s fraught encounter
with her at midday, Eleanor could not begin to guess.

“I missed you yesterday.” Eleanor gently squeezed Riannon’s forearm. “I’m loath
to admit such a thing about my blood kin, but Cicely makes for a poor companion
compared to you.”

“And I missed you.”

Riannon stroked the back of Eleanor’s hand with her thumb, then lifted Eleanor’s
hand to press a kiss to her fingers. Eleanor smiled, but before she could make a
teasing remark about the courtly gesture, Riannon released her, turned away, and
scooped up her sword. Riannon stood swiftly to slide the sword into its
scabbard.

“I must leave,” Riannon said. “For Sadiston.”

“Now? You are aware that it’s close to dark and with much cloud to hide the moon
tonight?”

Riannon’s jaw worked as she considered this. She looked for all the world like a
troubadour’s hero impetuously wishing herself away on a fast steed. Had Riannon
been in a better humour, Eleanor would have mock chided her for giving the
impression of wanting to flee. Instead, Eleanor held up her hands. Riannon took
them and helped her rise.

“I’ll not pry,” Eleanor said as she shook out her skirts. “Well, no more than I
have already. But I hope you feel that you can trust to my discretion.”

Eleanor gave Riannon’s hand a squeeze and headed for the door.

“Lady? May I visit you?”

Eleanor turned back with a smile. “I expect it. Where will you be staying in the
city? With your family?”

Riannon frowned. “I’m unsure. I have no expectation of a welcome with them.
Perhaps I’ll find lodging at an inn. I cannot guest at the grove house.”

The last, at least, came as no surprise.

“I’d be honoured to have you as my guest,” Eleanor said.

Riannon accepted the offer with a shy smile. But it was a smile, and Eleanor was
content with that. She had little doubt that before the evening was done she
could coax Riannon into a lighter mood. Riannon opened the door for her.

“Lady, I thank you,” Riannon said.

“I have a name, you know,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, lady.”

Eleanor laughed and threaded her arm through Riannon’s for the walk back across
the bailey. Her sojourn in the city, which Eleanor had not been anticipating
with unbridled pleasure, now promised much enjoyment.

Eleanor sighed, contented as a cat, as Agnes brushed her hair. One of her
earliest memories was of her nurse combing her hair. Although, the nurse had
often muttered about Eleanor’s unfashionable colouring and tried for years to
lighten the chestnut brown with lemon rinses. For all the worries and insecurity
that the woman had successfully instilled in young Eleanor about her appearance,
Eleanor had not lacked for compliments.

Once Agnes eliminated the few tangles, Eleanor closed her eyes and surrendered
to a physical pleasure that was sensual but innocent. She could have sat all
night and all day to the comforting rhythm of the long strokes.

“Aunt?”

Eleanor stifled a sigh and turned to see Cicely with her long blond hair already
neatly plaited for the night. Cicely’s pale complexion, fair hair, and slender
neck comprised exactly those attributes most prized in song. Eleanor’s childhood
nurse would not have tutted sadly over her.

“Aunt, the love between men and women is different, is it not, to the love we
have for the gods? And the love I had for my puppy?”

Had the questioner been anyone else, Eleanor would have been hard-pressed not to
laugh. Cicely looked in earnest. Eleanor signalled to Agnes to hurry.

“Yes, sweeting,” Eleanor said. “Love comes in many forms. In my experience,
which is not, I admit, so very broad, the love I feel for different people is in
no two cases the same.”

Cicely considered this with a grave expression. Agnes’s deft fingers finished
their hasty plaiting. Eleanor rose, picked up a candle, and drew Cicely behind
the screen to their sleeping pallets. None of the women followed them. Cicely
sat beside Eleanor. Her fingers, with the nails chewed to nothing, twined
together in her lap.

“What worries you?” Eleanor said. “Is it that you feel you’re somehow less
deserving of the Goddess’s love because you’ve put aside your dedication to her?
Sweeting, I don’t think she regards a woman inferior for being a wife rather
than priestess.”

Cicely bit her lip. Eleanor stroked the girl’s rigid back and patiently waited.

“How… how can I learn to love?” Cicely blushed darkly. “I… I love the Goddess.
And I loved my mother. I must’ve loved my father, though I was only young when
he died and don’t remember him. I loved the high priestess, and Sio Margaret and
Sio Blanche and… and all of the priestesses. But….”