Tower Lord

“I hope so, one day.”

This brought a smile, slipping from her lips as the vacant stare returned to her eyes. Lyrna squeezed her shoulder and returned to the tunnel. She didn’t turn for a final look, the sadness was too great.

She found the brothers and Smolen waiting for her when she returned to the surface. They were alone, the women who had greeted them gone to whatever duties the Mahlessa ordained.

“Alturk?” she asked Sollis.

“He left, Highness. Davoka spoke to him and he left.”

“Didn’t even say good-bye,” Ivern commented. “I was hurt.”

“Davoka?” Lyrna asked.

“Off caring for her sister somewhere,” the young brother said. “They’ve given us rooms the next level up.”

Lyrna nodded, looking down at the scroll in her hand.

“Your mission was a success, Highness?” Smolen ventured.

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “A great success. Rest well tonight, good sirs. We leave for the Realm come the dawn.”

? ? ?

The journey back to the Skellan Pass took the better part of two weeks, Davoka choosing an easier but longer route than the varied paths that brought them to the Mountain. Lyrna had offered to take Kiral with them but the Lonak woman refused. “Better cared for at the Mountain.”

“But you only just got her back,” Lyrna objected. “Don’t you want to stay a while? You can join me at court at any time.”

Davoka shook her head. “The Mahlessa commands,” was all she said.

In the evenings they would collaborate in translating The Wisdoms of Reltak, although Davoka found his verses somewhat troubling. “‘Divinity retains the appearance of insight,’” she read one evening, brows creased with a deep frown. “‘When in reality it celebrates ignorance. Its tenets are so much clay, and when the clay sets, it becomes dogma.’”

She looked at Lyrna over the top of the volume. “I don’t like this book.”

“Really? I find it rather charming.”

In the mornings Davoka would tutor her with the throwing knife, something they had neglected on the journey north. Brother Ivern soon joined in, finding a thin but broad piece of wood to use as a target. Sometimes he would toss it into the air, sending his own knives into the centre with a disconcerting speed and accuracy.

“I was always the best at toss-board,” he said. “Won more knives than any novice brother my age. Only Frentis could hope to match me.”

Frentis. A name Lyrna knew, her brother had spoken it many times. “You knew Brother Frentis?”

“We were in the same group at the Order House, Highness.”

“The King praises his courage highly. He said Untesh would have fallen on the first day if not for Brother Frentis.”

Ivern gave a sad smile. “That sounds like him. After the Test of the Sword he was sent to the Wolfrunners and I was sent here. I’m ashamed to say I was jealous, thinking him the lucky one.”

As the days passed she began to improve with the knife, finding the target with greater frequency, seeing the truth in Davoka’s words: Throw again . . . Again and again until you hit. Then you know how.

On the last morning, with the pass only one day’s ride away, as Ivern’s board fell to earth with her knife embedded in the centre, she could finally say she knew how.

? ? ?

Their return to the pass was greeted with some celebration and no small amount of surprise. The garrison had grown with the addition of a full regiment of Realm Guard cavalry, ordered by the King to venture into the Lonak Dominion in search of her. Fortunately, they had arrived the day before and preparations for their unwise expedition were far from complete.

“But you were attacked, Highness,” the regiment’s Lord Marshal objected when she told him to be ready to escort her south the next day. “Surely, the savages require some punishment. I would consider it an honour . . .”

She held up the scroll. “We are now at peace with the Lonak, my lord. Besides, the only punishment you’ll find north of the pass will be your own.”

Her gaze was drawn to Brother Sollis, noting the way he straightened as he received news from one of his brothers. He caught her eye and came over. “Tidings from the Realm, Highness. It seems there was an attempt on the life of Tower Lord Al Bera. He lives but is grievously wounded. Witnesses lay the blame on Cumbraelin fanatics.”

Lyrna stifled a groan. End one war and there’s another brewing at home. “What has the King commanded?”

“The Battle Lord musters the Realm Guard with orders to root out the fanatics. Fief Lord Mustor has been ordered to render assistance but whether his people will do so is another matter.”

“I see. Then I had best not linger. Lord Marshal, we leave within the hour.”

The Lord Marshal bowed and strode away, shouting orders. Lyrna turned back to Sollis. “It seems our farewell must be brief, brother. I know there is no gift or favour I can offer that you will accept, so I can only offer my thanks, for my life and the success of this mission.”

“It was . . . an interesting journey.” He hesitated. “There were other tidings, Highness. Lord Al Sorna has returned to the Realm.”

Vaelin . . . “Returned?” She heard the shrillness in her voice and coughed. “How?”

“The Emperor released him, apparently in gratitude for some heroic service. The details are a little vague. He arrived at Varinshold some weeks ago. It seems he has left our Order. King Malcius sent him to the Northern Reaches, as Tower Lord.”

The Northern Reaches . . . For once her foolish brother had made the right move, although she found herself wishing he had waited a little before making it. “Please thank Brother Ivern for me,” she told Sollis. “Convey my regrets I have no more kisses to offer.”

“I think one was more than enough, Highness.”

“Where will you go?” she asked. “Now there is no-one here for you to fight.”

“I go where my Aspect commands, Highness. And there’s always someone else to fight.” He gave a bow lower than any he had offered before, straightened and turned to walk towards the squat tower at the south end of the pass.

A Realm Guard sergeant hurried up to her, leading a fine grey mare. “The Lord Marshal offers you this gift, Highness,” the man said, holding out the reins. “From his own stables.”

Lyrna turned to scratch the nose of her pony. She had taken to calling him Surefoot in recent days, something Davoka seemed to find amusing and baffling in equal measure; the Lonak did not name animals they might have to slaughter for meat in the winter months. “I have a mount, sergeant,” she said, climbing onto the saddle, feeling the now-familiar bones of Surefoot’s back. “Shall we be off?”

? ? ?

In Cardurin cheering people thronged the streets, bunting decorated the myriad bridges between the tall buildings and townsfolk cast flowers along her path through the city. When she reached the main square the city factor made a florid and somewhat long speech praising her as a peacemaker and deliverer. “Anything Your Highness commands, this city will provide,” he finished, with an elaborate bow.

Lyrna shifted a little on Surefoot’s back as the crowd fell to expectant silence. “A bath, sir,” she said. “I should very much like a bath.”

So she bathed in a suite of rooms at the factor’s mansion, twice, and chose clothes provided by the city’s finest dressmakers whilst Davoka looked on with a wary scowl. “Can’t ride in those,” she said. “Or fight.”

“I’m hoping my riding and fighting days are over,” Lyrna replied. “This one,” she said to the serving girl, pointing at a long gown of dark blue chiffon and discarding her bathrobe. The girl gasped and looked away, blushing furiously. “Never seen a queen’s tits before,” Lyrna explained to a puzzled Davoka.

She put on the dress and stood before a long mirror, taking satisfaction from the way it complimented her figure, though it was looser around the waist than she would have liked, the consequence of so many days in the saddle she supposed. She paused at the sight of her face, half expecting the journey to have left some mark on her, some hardening or weathering to her features, but saw only the same face she had always seen, except . . . Was there something new in the set of her eyes? An openness that hadn’t been there before?

“You are . . . v-very beautiful, Highness,” the serving girl stammered, having recovered enough wit for flattery.

“Thank you,” Lyrna said with one of her best smiles. “Please lay out the riding gown for the morning and pack these others for me.”

She spent a few hours at the banquet the factor had convened in her honour, sitting through more speeches from various town notables and suffering the inane chatter of their wives. The only oratory she offered was a reading of the Mahlessa’s scroll, which she ordered be copied and sent to every corner of the Realm. From the speeches and conversation it was clear these people saw her as more a victor than a peacemaker, as if she had won a great battle rather than merely survive a perilous journey to return with a piece of parchment. Watching the laughing, and increasingly drunken faces around her, she found herself pondering the Mahlessa’s words. They come, Queen, to tear it all down . . . Your world and mine.