Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (43 page)

“Service?”

“The date of Alltor’s first prophecy approaches,” her uncle said. “Three weeks hence. The Reader himself will conduct a service in the cathedral on each Father’s Day until then.”

“Services are a perversion of the Ten Books,” Reva said, in remembrance rather than conviction. “No rituals are stipulated in the books. The truly loved need no empty ceremony from the venal church.”

“Did the priest teach you that?” he asked.

She nodded. “And much more.”

“Then perhaps there may be some wisdom to the Sons’ delusions. In any case, perversion or not, I would greatly appreciate your attendance. I think the Reader will find you most interesting.”

◆ ◆ ◆

She tried on four dresses before finding one Veliss approved of, a black tight-bodiced contrivance with lace sleeves and a high collar. “It itches,” Reva grumbled as they formed a procession before the main gate. A squad of guards lined up on either side and they started forward at a sedate walk, making their way through the gate and into the square beyond.

“Power comes at a price, love,” Veliss replied through bared teeth, maintaining the smile she offered to the townsfolk lining the square.

“What power?”

“All power. The power to rule, to kill or, in your case this fine morning, the power to incite the lust of the old goat you’re about to meet.”

“Lust? I have no desire to incite lust in anyone.”

Veliss turned to her with a quizzical expression, her smile suddenly genuine. “Then I’m afraid you’re in for a lifetime of disappointment.”

Inside, the cathedral seemed a vast wonder of ascending arches and tall windows, the stained glass casting multi-coloured rays across the pillars. The air was thick with incense as they made their way to the balcony on the western wall, the raised seats offering a fine view of the interior. In the centre of the space below stood a podium surrounded by ten lecterns.

It took an age for the whole congregation to assemble, finely attired nobles and merchants in the foremost rows, poorer folk behind, the poorest lining the walls. Reva had never seen such a multitude in one place, and found herself squirming under the weight of so many curious eyes. “Is the whole city here?” she whispered to her uncle.

“Hardly. Perhaps a tenth. There are other chapels in the city. Only the most devout come here, or the richest.”

The sound of a bell pealed forth, stilling the murmur of conversation. After a moment the white-robed figure of the Reader appeared, preceded once again by his five book-bearing bishops. They went to each of the lecterns, placing the books with careful reverence before stepping back, hands clasped together and eyes downcast as the Reader ascended the podium. He surveyed the congregation with a faint smile then raised his gaze to the balcony, smiling at the Fief Lord, at Lady Veliss, and paling somewhat at the sight of Reva, the smile slipping from his lips, making them sag on his aged face like two wet slugs.

That,
Reva decided,
is not the expression of a lustful man.

The Reader seemed to recover his composure quickly, turning and opening one of the books, his voice strong and clear as he read, “‘There are two types of hate. The hatred of the man who knows you and the hatred of the man who fears you. Show love to both and they will hate you no longer.’”

The Tenth Book,
Reva recognised.
The Book of Wisdom.

“Hatred,” the Reader repeated, raising his gaze to the congregation. “The World Father’s love, you would think, would be enough to banish all hatred from the hearts of men. But, of course, it is not. For not all men open their hearts to such love. Not all men allow themselves to listen to the words in these ten books, and many who do make only a pretence of hearing their truth. Not all men have the courage to cast off their old ways, to banish sin from their hearts and make a new life under the Father’s gaze. In return for what He offers the Father asks so very little, he offers you love. His love. A love that will preserve your soul for eternity . . .”

Reva’s boredom grew as he droned on, her collar itching worse than before as she tried not to fidget.
What am I doing here?
she wondered.
Showing respectful obedience to an uncle I don’t even know. Alongside his whore no less.

She was seized by a desire to leave, just get up and walk out. Uncle had said she was free to go where she wished, and she wished to be somewhere far away from this old man’s twaddle.
But his expression when he saw me,
she remembered.
Not lust, fear.
She had scared him, badly, and she found she wanted to know why.

Although it seemed a century, the Reader spoke for perhaps an hour, pausing now and then to read another passage from one of the books, then launching into another rambling diatribe on the Father’s love and the nature of sin. As a child one of her few pleasures had been those periods of respite when the priest would educate her in the Ten Books, reading every passage with such passionate conviction she couldn’t help but be swept along in the torrent of words. The respite was always brief though, for he would test her after every reading, hickory cane poised to punish any fumbled recitation.

She found no echo of the priest’s passion here in this vaulted cavern of glass and marble, just an old man’s empty dogma.
It can’t all be a lie,
she thought, fighting a rising sense of desperation.
Even Uncle Sentes feels the Father’s love. There must be truth here somewhere.

The Reader’s last words were lost to Reva as she indulged in memories of time spent with Alornis, finding she badly wanted to see her draw again. Finally he fell silent and walked from the podium as the congregation rose from their seats, heads bowed. The bishops, who had remained standing throughout, though some were almost as old as the Reader, retrieved their books from the lecterns and followed in solemn silence. The bell pealed once more and the cathedral began to empty. A few of the nobles and merchants attempted to linger at the balcony steps to beg a word with the Fief Lord but were shooed away by the guards.

“Right,” Uncle Sentes said when the last of the congregants had filed out, standing and offering Reva his hand. “Let’s see what the old bastard has to say for himself.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Your niece, my lord?” The Reader’s voice was carefully modulated, just enough surprise mixed in with the serenity. They had been conveyed to his private chambers by a coldly servile priest who couldn’t disguise his disdain for Veliss, or a suspicious sneer at Reva. She resolved to punch him on the way out.

“Indeed, Holy Reader,” Uncle Sentes replied. “My niece, soon to be acknowledged as such. It would be an honour if you would witness the warrant, as well as serving to still any silly doubts amongst the people. I’ve had the document prepared.”

Lady Veliss placed the scroll she held on the Reader’s desk, unfurling it and securing the edge with an inkpot. “Where I’ve marked, if you please, Holy Reader.”

The Reader barely glanced at the document, apparently finding it difficult not to look at Reva, his expression not so fearful now.
Some lust in him after all,
she thought. “How old are you child?” he asked.

She couldn’t say where the certainty came from, but she had no doubt he already knew her age, probably to the day. “Eighteen years this summer, Holy Reader,” she replied.

“Eighteen years.” The old man shook his head. “At my age the years speed by so. It seems no more than a week since your father came to me, seeking guidance. He wanted so badly to marry your mother, and, though it grieves me to say so in your uncle’s hearing, I counselled him to do so, in defiance of his father. ‘The joining of hearts is to be rejoiced at.’”

“‘And only a sinful man will sunder those joined in love,’” Reva concluded.
The Second Book, The Book of Blessings.

The Reader smiled and sighed in pleasure. “I see the Father’s love burns bright in you, child.” He picked up a quill, dipping it in the inkpot to add his signature to the document formalising her acknowledgment as Lady Reva Mustor, Niece to Fief Lord Sentes Mustor of Cumbrael. Veliss reclaimed the scroll and moved back to the Fief Lord’s side, blowing gently on the wet ink.

“I do so hate to trouble you further, Holy Reader,” the Fief Lord said. “But I have grave news to impart.”

The old man gave a placid nod. “The Realm Guard marches towards our borders once more. Grim tidings indeed. We can only trust the Father’s benevolence will save us from further ravishment.”

“The Realm Guard will spend a month or so wandering around woods and hills seeking the fanatics who attacked the Lord of the South Tower. Having found nothing, they will go home. A necessary demonstration for the Asraelin populace. I have the King’s Word on it.” Her uncle’s red eyes for once were clear and bright with scrutiny as he read the Reader’s expression. “No, the news I must impart is far graver. You see my niece is not only accomplished in her knowledge of the Ten Books, she also wields a sword with great skill, even more skill than my late brother in fact.”

“Really?” The Reader gazed at Reva in wonder. “The Father is generous with his blessings, it seems.”

“Doubly generous,” Uncle Sentes said. “For he contrived to place her in my manor the very night three assassins came to kill me. But for her I wouldn’t be standing here.”

The Reader’s shock was genuine, she could see it, the start that made his aged jowls wobble, the slight frown of consternation; the face of a man suffering an unpleasant surprise. “The Father be thanked you are not hurt, my lord,” he gasped. “The assassins, do they live?”

“Sadly, no. One was slain by my wonderful niece, a second by my guards.” He paused, his gaze still fixed on the Reader’s face. “But one escaped. A man my niece insists is a priest in your church.”

The Reader’s alarm was also genuine, but not so surprised as before.
He knows,
Reva thought.
He knows who the priest is.
She found her fists clenching as the old man made a show of sorrowful reflection.

“Sadly the priestly calling does not make us immune from misguided notions,” he said. “Your brother’s words, heretical though they were, found many willing adherents, including some amongst the priesthood. I shall, of course, exhaust every resource available to the church to bring this rogue to justice. If you could furnish a description . . .”

Veliss produced a second smaller scroll and placed it on his desk. “Ah, efficient as ever, my lady,” the Reader said. “It shall be copied and distributed to every chapel within days. The fugitive will find no refuge in the church, I assure you.”

Reva took a step towards him, fists aching now, finding her uncle’s hand on her arm, gentle but firm.

“Your consideration is appreciated, Holy Reader,” he said. “I believe we have troubled you enough for one day.”

“Feel free to trouble me on all days, my lord.” He smiled at Reva. “Especially if the company you bring is so delightful as today.”

Her uncle tugged her arm and started for the door, but Reva didn’t move just yet. “‘Deceit,’” she said to the Reader, “‘is the hardest sin to divine, for many a lie is spoken in kindness, and many a truth in cruelty.’”

He kept it from his face, but his eyes gleamed with it, just for a second: anger. “Quite so, my dear. Quite so.”

“Reva,” Uncle Sentes said from the door.

Reva bowed to the Reader and followed her uncle from the room. The sneering priest stood in the hallway, regarding her with unmistakable contempt.

“Pardon me,” Reva said, pausing. He was a tall man and she was obliged to look up at him, though not tall enough to be out of reach. “Your nose appears to be bleeding.”

He frowned, fingers coming up to touch his nose, coming away clean. “I don’t . . .”

His head snapped back from the force of the blow, nose breaking, though not with enough force to kill him. He stumbled backwards to collide with the wall, sinking to the floor, blood streaming down his face.

“My mistake,” Reva said, moving on. “Now it’s bleeding.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“That was unbecoming,” Uncle Sentes reproached when they had returned to the manse, going to the library where a fresh bottle of wine was already waiting. Lady Veliss, however, seemed to be smothering a laugh.

Reva slumped into a chair, unbuttoning her hateful collar and scratching furiously. “That old man is a liar,” she stated.

“Evidently,” he replied, removing the cork and sniffing the bottle’s contents. “Umblin Valley, five years old. Very nice.”

“So that’s it?” Reva asked. “He lies to your face and you do nothing?”

The Fief Lord merely smiled and poured the wine.

“We imparted a warning,” Veliss said, glancing up from her desk, the one Reva had paused at during her mission to retrieve the sword. Veliss was still engaged in study of the same book, the one about money and wine-making, her desk stacked high with copious notes. “The great hypocrite will be on the defensive now.”

“Where I would like to keep him for good,” Uncle Sentes added. “Something your vaunted grandfather never quite managed.”

“He knows,” Reva said. “The priest, where he is. I can tell.”

“Hungry for vengeance, love?” Veliss asked. “Did he treat you so badly?”

Filthy, Fatherless sinner . . .
Reva got up from the chair, moving to the door. “I’m going to change.”

“It would help if we knew more about him,” Veliss said, making her pause. “About how you were raised. Where exactly was it? A castle, a cave in the mountains?”

“A barn,” she replied in a mutter before leaving the room.

She went to her room, undressing with an urgency that left several rips in the dress, tossing it into a corner. She changed into her preferred garb of riding trews and loose-fitting blouse, provided at her insistence despite Veliss’s objections.
I’ll find him myself,
she decided as she laced up her boots.
Sneak into the cathedral tonight and make the old man spill his secrets . . .

There was a knock on the door, soft but insistent. She opened it to find her uncle there, his expression kind but insistent. “A barn?” he said.