Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (38 page)

The door creaked, opening to reveal a slightly built man with long ash-grey hair, and a less-than-welcoming expression. “What do you want?” he asked Vaelin. His voice was hard with resentment, possibly at their intrusion or perhaps the fear Vaelin had induced at their last meeting.

“Same as before, brother,” Vaelin told him. “Answers to difficult questions.”

Harlick shook his head, turning back inside. “I have no answers for you. Just let me be . . .”

“Your Aspect would disagree, I think.” Harlick paused and Vaelin continued, “I met him recently. Your name came up. Would you like to know the context?”

The librarian sighed through gritted teeth and went back inside, leaving the door open. Vaelin bowed to Dahrena, “My lady, shall we?”

Harlick’s hut was furnished with a simple table, chair and narrow cot. An iron stove stood in the corner, a recently boiled kettle steaming atop the hob. The table was piled high with parchment, several quills scattered about the pages amongst inkpots, most empty. By far the most salient feature of the hut, however, was the scrolls, stacked against the far wall, twenty high from floor to ceiling.

“Do you forget them?” Vaelin asked. “Once you’ve written them down?”

Harlick made a harsh grating noise that might have been a laugh as he moved towards the stove.

“I am remiss, my lady,” Vaelin said. “Allow me to present Brother Harlick of the Seventh Order, former scholar to the Great Library in Varinshold. Brother, this is the Lady Dahrena Al Myrna, First Counsel to the North Tower.”

Harlick offered Dahrena a shallow bow. “My lady. Please forgive the meanness of my home. I have freshly brewed tea if you would care for some.”

Dahrena returned the bow with a polite smile. “Another time, sir.”

“Just as well.” Harlick lifted the kettle from the hob. “I only have enough for one more cup.” He spooned some leaves from a clay pot into a small porcelain cup and poured in the water.

“Your Aspect had a story to tell,” Vaelin said. “About a forest and a dead boy.”

He was impressed by the absence of a tremble in Harlick’s hand as he stirred the tea leaves. He did, however, cast a guarded look at Dahrena.

“I hold no secrets from this lady,” Vaelin told him.

Harlick sighed and shook his head. “You are a liar, my lord. We all hold secrets. I expect the lady has a whole bushel of her own, and I’m certain you do.”

He’s different,
Vaelin decided.
Lost his fear somehow.
His gaze wandered to the scrolls covering the far wall.
Something he read perhaps?

“Tell me,” Harlick said, sitting on the only chair and sipping his tea. “Did my Aspect give you a message for me? A command to answer your questions?”

“No,” Vaelin replied. “But he did tell me your mission here was not some sacred trust. You do not enjoy his favour. You are lucky, in fact, to be alive, and this”—he cast his gaze around the hut—“is your punishment. You are in exile.”

“As are you.” Harlick sounded weary, putting his cup aside and reclining in his seat. “If you’re here for vengeance, just get it done. My actions may have been misguided but they were driven by honest and unselfish intent.”

For the first time in years Vaelin felt a true anger building in his breast. “Misguided? You set assassins to kill me in the Urlish. Instead they killed my brother. A boy of just twelve years. They cut his head from his shoulders. Were you there for that? Did you linger to see the results of your
unselfish intent
?”

“My lord,” Dahrena said in a quiet voice and Vaelin realised he was advancing on the scholar, fists clenched.

Harlick merely stared up at him, face impassive save for a mild curiosity.

Vaelin took a deep breath and stepped back, forcing his hands open. “You know of my gift?” he asked when his breathing had calmed enough to speak in an even voice.

“Manifestations Volume One,” Harlick recited in a flat tone. “Index Four, Column One. All known instances recorded amongst the Seordah, none concurrent. Seordah name translates as ‘Song of Blood’ or ‘Blood Song’ depending on inflection. Known manifestations in the Realm at the time of writing: none. All detected manifestations to be reported to the Aspect with extreme urgency.” He met Vaelin’s eyes then spoke on. “Addendum: known manifestations in the Realm: One.”

“When?” Vaelin asked. “When did you know?”

“Before you did, I expect. The prophecy was unusually unambiguous. ‘Born of the healer and the Lord of Battle.’ Who else could it be?”

“And what else did this prophecy tell you?”

“‘He will fall to the One Who Waits under a desert moon and his song be claimed by reborn malice.’” Harlick took another sip of tea. “I was not prepared to see that happen.”

“The Aspect told me there was another prophecy, one not quite so pessimistic. One you chose not to believe.”

“We all make choices. Some are harder than others.”

“So you hired assassins to prevent the prophecy’s ever coming true.”

“How would I go about hiring assassins? A scholar of the Grand Library is not so resourceful, especially since I knew my Aspect would be unsympathetic to my intent. But as it transpired, research revealed an interested party who had ample knowledge of such matters. A king’s First Minister is required to dirty his hands on numerous occasions, I expect.”

A king’s First Minister . . .
“Artis Al Sendahl. Nortah’s father hired the men?”

“And required little persuasion, I assure you. He made a show of reluctance at first but a few whispers of my Dark knowledge and he was all enthusiasm, his duty to the Realm demanded it no less. Plus with the Battle Lord’s boy tragically taken from the Order, there would be no reason to keep his own son shackled to them.”

“But when your scheme failed . . .”

“We had made great efforts to conceal our involvement, but your Order is persistent. It took them two years or more to ferret out the truth, and when they did . . . my Aspect was not pleased. I expect the matter was communicated to the King in due course, hence Lord Al Sendahl’s execution, supposedly on charges of corruption.”

Janus’s words, from years ago:
He wasn’t a thief of coin, he was a thief of power.
Nortah’s father was executed for exercising the power to kill, a power reserved to the King.

“There was someone else there that night,” he said to Harlick. “The assassins spoke of another one. One they feared. Who was it?”

The scholar sipped some more tea. “I know of no other.” For the first time there was some fear there, just a small flare to the nostrils, a slight twitch to the mouth . . . and a discordant note from the blood-song.

“You know my gift,” Vaelin reminded him.

Harlick put down his tea cup and said nothing. Vaelin felt his fists begin to curl again, knowing he could beat it out of Harlick if he chose to, for all his apparent unconcern the man remained a coward at heart. “There are others,” he said. “Others in the Seventh Order who shared your belief. You did not act alone.” The blood-song’s murmur confirmed it as Harlick maintained his silence. “Even now,” Vaelin went on. “All these years later, you cling to your delusion. That what you did was right.”

“No,” Harlick replied. “All prophecies are false. I see that now. Those with the gift for scrying are usually mad, driven so by the swirl of visions clouding their thoughts and dreams. It is not the future they see, just possibility. And possibility is infinite. Wouldn’t you agree? But for chance it could well have been some malign soul from the Beyond standing before me now, possessing your gift and made Tower Lord no less. Fortune may have proved me wrong, but only by the most slender margin.”

“Not fortune,” Vaelin said. “Blood, most of it innocent, much of it spilled by my hand.”

Harlick gave only a slight nod by way of acknowledgment, regarding Vaelin in resigned expectation. “Thank you for allowing me my tea, my lord.”

Vaelin gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, brother. Arrogant wretch though you may be, I have too much use for you. And there is a great deal for you to balance. You are hereby appointed Archivist of the North Tower.” He waved a hand at the hut’s contents, moving to the door. “Gather your things and be ready to leave by morning. We will have much to discuss at the tower. My lady?”

She paused to offer a stunned Harlick a bow of congratulation then followed him from the hut.

“I do not like that man,” she said as they walked back along the beach.

Vaelin glanced back at the hut, seeing the scholar’s wiry figure outlined in the doorway. “I doubt he likes himse—”

It hit him like a hammerblow, the screaming note of the song surging once more to an instant crescendo. He staggered, feeling blood flow from his nose, collapsing to the sand as the scream brought a vision . . .
Flame, all is flame, all is pain and fury . . . A man dies, a woman dies, children die . . . And the scream never ends . . . The flames swirl, coalesce, two dark patches appear, forming into eye sockets as the flames shape themselves into a skull, then a face, perfect and beautiful . . . And familiar . . . Lyrna, formed of fire . . . Screaming.

T
he holdfast of Baron Hughlin Banders lay thirty some miles from the Asraelin border, a sprawling structure of varying architecture and mismatched brickwork, some new, some clearly ancient. It sat in the centre of a large estate of forest and rolling hills, well-stocked with deer. They arrived as evening was coming on, greeted a good distance from the main house by a company of knights, over fifty fully armoured men approaching in battle order. The company’s leader revealed a nose marked by a single horizontal scar as he raised his visor, his evident suspicion dissipating at sight of Lyrna. Despite his ruffian-like appearance he possessed the cultured vowels and manners of a blood-born knight.

“My most abject apologies, Highness,” he said, having dismounted to sink to one knee, head lowered. “Such a large party, we mistook your intent.”

“Do not concern yourself, my lord,” Lyrna replied. She had always found the elaborate manners of the Renfaelin knightly class somewhat tedious and was in scant mood to indulge them now. “I come in search of Baron Banders. Is he at home?”

“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. His 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.”