Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (16 page)

“Brother,” the gaunt man said. “It gladdens my heart, and the hearts of all the truly Faithful, to see you safely returned to us.”

Al Sorna replied in clipped tones, devoid of any warmth or regard. “Aspect Tendris.”

“I told him he wasn’t welcome, my lord,” the guard captain said.

“And why would he say that, brother?” the gaunt man asked. “Why should you ever bar your door to your brother in the Faith?”

“Aspect,” Al Sorna said. “Whatever it is you want, I can’t give it to you.”

“Not true, brother.” The Aspect’s voice became fierce, his eyes wide with conviction. Reva noticed his voice was pitched loud enough to be caught by all ears in the crowd. “You can join with us. My Order welcomes you, as your own does not.”

Reva shifted in her saddle, settling the sword more comfortably on her back.
This man is mad,
she decided.
Some lunatic luminary of their heretic faith, so lost in its lies his reason has fled
.

“I no longer have an Order,” Al Sorna informed the Aspect, his own voice at an even level. “Nor do I wish another. I am commanded by our King to undertake Lordship of the North Tower.”

“The King,” Tendris rasped. “A man in thrall to a Denier witch.”

“Watch your tongue, Aspect!” the guard captain warned, causing his men to take a two-handed grip on their pole-axes. The black-cloaked men began reaching for their weapons.

“Enough of this!” Al Sorna barked, the implacable note of command in his voice sufficient to forestall further movement, even the crowd seemed to have frozen. However, there was one, Reva saw, who seemed immune to the command, one of the black-cloaks, a large, blocky man with broad, brutish features and a strikingly misshapen nose. He was careful, keeping his movements small as he shifted something beneath his cloak.

“You’ve stated your case and had your answer,” Al Sorna told the Aspect. “Now take yourself off.”

“So this is what you’ve become?” Tendris grated, his horse fidgeting as it read his mood, his wide-eyed gaze shifting from Al Sorna to Reva. “A Faithless slave of the Crown, shamelessly parading his god-worshipping whore about—”

Reva’s knife came free of its sheath in a blur. She rose in the saddle, leaning forward as the knife left her hand, barely five feet from the Aspect. It was one of her more clumsy efforts, as she had to account for the shifting of her horse, and the knife tumbled untidily as it flew past the Aspect’s ear to bury itself in the shoulder of the man with the misshapen nose. He screamed, high and shrill, collapsing to his knees, the loaded and drawn crossbow he had been raising clattering to the cobbles.

The guard captain barked an order and his men moved forward, pole-axes levelled. The other black-cloaks began to draw their swords but stopped at a shout from the Aspect. The crowd drew back at the violence, some scattering, others retreating a ways before turning to stare at the spectacle.

Al Sorna guided his horse forward a few paces, looking down at the large brother as he rolled on the ground, groaning then gasping as he drew Reva’s knife from his shoulder, staring at the bloody blade in horror. “Don’t I know you?” Al Sorna asked.

“You have shamed the Order, Iltis,” the Aspect scolded the fallen brother before addressing Al Sorna. “This man acted without my sanction.”

“I’m sure, Aspect.” Al Sorna smiled at the unfortunate Brother Iltis. “He had a debt to repay, I know.”

“Brother, I beg you.” Tendris reached out to grasp the Darkblade’s forearm. “The Faith needs you. Come back to us.”

Al Sorna turned his horse, breaking the Aspect’s grip. “There is nothing to come back to. And you and are I done here.”

The guards took charge of Brother Iltis, dragging him away as Reva dismounted to retrieve her knife. “And I’m not his whore!” she called to Tendris as he rode away, his brothers trotting in his wake. “I’m his sister! Haven’t you heard?”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Kindred spirit?”

Al Sorna shrugged and smiled. “I thought you’d get on better. He’s as wedded to the Faith as you are to the Father’s love.”

“That man is a mad heretic wallowing in delusion,” Reva stated. “I am not.”

Al Sorna just smiled again and spurred on ahead. They were on the north road, having exited Varinshold a mile or so back, Alornis riding in morose silence amidst their escort, a full company of the Mounted Guard. Evidently, the Darkblade’s King was keen for him to reach his destination.

Another mile brought them within sight of a grim castle of dark granite. It was not as tall as the Cumbraelin castles she had seen, the inner wall only some thirty feet high, but it was larger, enclosing several acres within its walls. There were no pennants flying from the towers and Reva wondered what Asraelin noble could afford the upkeep of such a mighty stronghold. Al Sorna had reined in a short distance ahead and she spurred her mare to a trot, pulling up at his side. “What is this place?”

Al Sorna’s gaze stayed on the castle, his face betraying a sadness she hadn’t seen before. “You need to wait here,” he said. “Tell the captain I’ll be an hour or so.”

He kicked his stallion into motion, riding towards the gate in the castle’s outer wall at a steady trot. Upon reaching it he dismounted and rang a bell hanging from a nearby post. After only a few moments a tall, blue-robed figure appeared at the gate. He was too far away to make out his features, but Reva had the sense he was smiling in welcome. The tall man pulled the gate open and Al Sorna went inside, both of them quickly vanishing from view.

“The first time he went through that gate was the last time my father ever saw him.” Alornis sat on her horse a few yards away, regarding the castle with deep suspicion.

“This is the home of the Sixth Order?” Reva asked.

Alornis nodded and dismounted. She moved with a smooth precision, clearly no stranger to the saddle, holding something up to her horse’s mouth, the white-nosed mare chomping on it with evident appreciation. “You can always win a horse’s heart with a sugar lump,” she said, patting the animal’s flank then reaching for her saddlebag. “You and I have something very important to do.”

◆ ◆ ◆

That’s not me.

The girl depicted on the parchment was very pretty, despite a slightly off-centre nose, with a tumble of lustrous hair and bright eyes that seemed to gleam with a life of their own. Despite Alornis’s obvious flattery, Reva was compelled, even a little chilled, by the talent on display.
Just charcoal and parchment,
she wondered.
Yet she makes them live.

“Hopefully they’ll have canvas and pigment in the Northern Reaches,” Alornis said, adding a few strokes to the shadows under the too-perfect curve of Reva’s jawline. “This one’s definitely worth painting.”

They sat together under a willow tree some distance from the castle walls. Al Sorna had been inside for close to two hours. “Do you know why the Darkblade came here?” she asked Alornis.

“I’m starting to realise that understanding my brother’s actions may be a task beyond me.” She looked up from her sketch. “Why do you call him Darkblade?”

“It’s the name my people gave him. The Fourth Book foretold a fearsome heretic warrior who wields his sword with the aid of the Dark.”

“Do you believe such silliness?”

Reva flushed and looked away. “The love of the Father is not silliness. Do you consider your Faith silly? Bowing down to the imaginary shades of your ancestors.”

“I don’t bow down to anything. My parents now, they were devoted in their adherence to the Ascendant Creed, the path to perfection and wisdom, attainable through the right combination of words, a poem or a song that could unlock all the secrets of the soul and with it, the world. They used to drag me along to their meetings, held in secret in those days. We’d gather in basements and recite our creeds. Mumma would get cross when I giggled through mine. I thought it all such nonsense.”

“So she beat you for your heresy?”

Alornis blinked at her. “Beat me? Of course not.”

Reva looked away again, realising she had made a mistake.

“Reva?” Alornis put her sketch aside and came to sit beside her, touching a hand to her shoulder. “Were you . . . ? Did someone . . . ?”

Filthy, Fatherless sinner!
“Don’t!” She jerked away, rising, walking to the other side of the willow, the priest’s words hounding her.
“I know what lies festering in your heart, girl. I saw your eyes on her . . .” The hickory cane he used fell with every word as she stood there, arms at her sides, forbidden to move, or cry out. “You befoul the Book of Reason! You befoul the Book of Laws! You befoul the Book of Judgement!” His last blow caught her on the temple, sending her to the barn floor, dazed and bleeding onto the straw. “By rights I should kill you, but you are saved by your blood. This mission given to us by the Father Himself saves you. But if we are to succeed, I must beat the sin from you.” And he did, until the pain was such she felt nothing more and blackness engulfed her.

She was on her knees in the grass, hugging herself.
Filthy, Fatherless sinner.

◆ ◆ ◆

Al Sorna returned from the Sixth Order’s castle as the afternoon sun began to wane. He said nothing, motioning the guard company into their ranks and riding on without pause. His silence stayed in place until nightfall when they made camp and ate a supper of bland but hearty soldier’s fare. Reva sat across from Alornis, eating mechanically and avoiding her gaze.
Too long,
she thought continually.
Too long with him. Too long with her.

There was a scrape of boot leather and she looked up to find Al Sorna standing over her. “It’s time I fulfilled our bargain.”

They left Alornis at the fire and found a spot amongst the field of long grass fringing the road, far enough away to be out of earshot. Reva sat on the grass cross-legged as Al Sorna crouched nearby, meeting her gaze intently. “What do you know about your father’s death?” he asked. “Not what you’ve imagined. What do you truly know?”

“The Eleventh Book relates how he was mustering his forces at the High Keep to meet your invasion. You led an attack, using the Dark to find your way into the keep. He died bravely, but the Trueblade of the World Father was cast down by superior numbers and Dark skill.”

“In other words, nothing. Since there were no survivors amongst his followers, whoever wrote this Eleventh Book of yours wasn’t there. He wasn’t mustering an army. He was waiting, with a hostage, someone I cared about. He used her to compel me to disarm so he could kill me. And he didn’t die bravely, he died confused and maddened by something that made him kill his father.”

Reva shook her head. The priest had warned her many times it would be this way when she moved amongst heretics.
They won so they get to write the story.
But still the words needled her. Reluctant as she was to admit it, there was a truth to the Darkblade. He hid things, left many things unsaid, but still there was a basic honesty to him. And, unlike her unknowable father, she could actually hear his words. “You lie,” she said, forcing conviction into her tone.

“Do I?” His gaze was unwavering, holding her fast. “I think you know the truth in my words. I think you’ve always known it’s your father’s tale that’s the lie.”

She tore her gaze away, closing her eyes.
This is his power,
she realised.
This is where his Darkness resides. Not in his sword, in his words. A clever trick, to speak a lie through a mask of truth and trust.
“The sword,” she said, voice hoarse and thick.

“We were in the Lord’s chamber at the High Keep. My brother threw an axe that took him in the chest. He died instantly. I recall his sword tumbled off into the shadows. I didn’t take it, nor did I ever see any of my brothers or my men with it.”

“You said you knew where to find it.”

She knew the answer before he voiced it, but still the words cut her, worse than any stroke of the priest’s cane. “I lied, Reva.”

She closed her eyes. A fiery tremble covering her from head to toe. “Why?” was all she could say, the word spoken in the faintest whisper.

“Your people say I have the Dark. But that, as a much wiser soul once told me, is a word for the ignorant. It’s like a song, a song that guides me. And it guided me to you. It would have been so easy to lose you in the forest that first night, but the song told me to wait for you. Told me to keep you close, teach you what you hadn’t been taught by whoever sent you for me.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why you were only taught the knife? Not the bow or the sword, or anything that might have given you a chance against me? Given just enough skill to make you a threat, just dangerous enough to make me kill you. The blood of the Trueblade fallen to the Darkblade. A fresh martyr. There was someone else there that night when you came for me. My song found them when it found you. Someone followed you, waiting, watching. A witness, hungry for another chapter to the Eleventh Book.”

She rose to her feet and he rose with her. The sword shifted on her back, like a snake uncoiling for a strike. “Why?” she said.

“Your father’s followers need me. They need their great heretic enemy. Without me they’re just a group of madmen worshipping the ghost of another madman. You were sent in search of a thing that can’t be found, in the hope that I would kill you, birthing more hate to fuel their holy cause. Your only value to them is in your blood and your death. They care nothing for you, but I do.”

The sword came free of the scabbard, straight and true as an arrow as she flew towards him. He didn’t move, didn’t twist, didn’t dodge, just stood still, expression unchanging as the sword point pierced his shirt and flesh. Reva realised she was crying, a dimly remembered sensation from childhood, when the priest had first taken her and his beatings had seemed cruel. “Why?” she grated through tears.

The sword point had penetrated the shirt and inch of flesh. Only a small thrust and the Darkblade would be gone to his well-deserved eternity of torment.

“For the same reason I now deny my song though it screams at me to let you go,” he said, face and voice lacking any trace of fear. “For the same reason you can’t kill me.” His hand came up, slowly reaching out to caress her cheek. “I came back to this land to find a sister. Instead I found two.”