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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 r
eason 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.”
“I am not your sister. I am not your friend. I seek the sword of the Trueblade to unite all in the love of the Father.”
He gave a small sigh of frustration, shaking his head. “Your World Father is nothing more than a thousand-year-old collection of myth and legend. And if he did exist, his bishops say he hates you for what you are.”
The trembling grew to a shudder, making the sword vibrate in her grip. One small thrust . . . She reeled away, stumbling to the ground.
“Come with us, Reva,” he said, imploring.
She scrambled to her feet and began to run, through the shifting dark of the long grass, tears streaming back from her eyes, the sword blade flickering as her arms pumped, stifling a sob as his plaintive call echoed after her. “REVA!”
CHAPTER NINE
Frentis
The seed will grow . . .
The itch began the morning after they killed the old man in the temple. Frentis woke with the woman’s naked flesh pressed against him, features serene and content in slumber, locks of dark hair tumbling over her face, stirring a little in her soft, untroubled breath. He wanted very much to strangle her. She had been exultant as she used him, nails digging into his back, her thighs firm around his waist, panting riddles in Volarian as she moved. “We have . . . the whole world now . . . my love . . . Let the Ally play his games . . . Soon I’ll play mine . . . And you . . .” She paused, smiling as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, sweat dripping from her breasts onto his scarred chest. “You will be the piece that wins the whole board.”
Lying there, his body lined with sunlight from the slatted windows, he willed his arms to move, his hands to reach for her throat, forcing every ounce of desire into the command. But his arms stayed at his side, relaxed and unmoving. Even now, lost in sleep and whatever nightmares she thought dreams, still she bound him.
He noticed the itch as he let his eyes wander the ornate ceiling of her inn room. It was a small, faint tickle in his side, just below the rib cage. He assumed it must be one of the numberless bugs that seemed to be everywhere in this corner of the empire, but there was a rhythm to it, a slight but constant scratch too regular to be the nibbling of a bug.
The woman stirred, rolling onto her back, eyes opening, a lazy smile on her lips. “Good morning, beloved.”
Frentis said nothing.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh don’t sulk. That man was singularly undeserving of your noble concern, believe me.” She got out of bed, walking naked to the window, peering through the slats at the street. “Seems we’ve caused a little commotion. Only to be expected. These irrational wretches are bound to react badly when one of their gods fails to stop her own temple burning down.”
She turned away, yawning and ruffling her tangled hair. “Go get dressed. Our list is long and so is the road.”
He went to his own room, drawing a wide-eyed gasp from the serving girl in the hallway. He closed the door on her blushing embarrassment and started to dress. The itch was still there and he was now allowed sufficient freedom to look, fingers probing the flesh under his rib cage. There was nothing, just the thick scar line that ran from his side to his sternum . . . wait. It was only the smallest change, a slight shift in the texture of his damaged flesh, from rough to smooth. He could see no difference but his fingers told another story. Is it . . . ? Can it be healing?
He recalled the woman’s alarm when she saw the old man’s blood on his face, the way she had bound him, eyes alive for any change in his state, and the old man’s last sputtering words. The seed will grow . . .
The binding flared with an impatient jab and he finished dressing. Healing or not, she bound him as tight as ever.
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They went to the docks and booked passage to the Twelve Sisters aboard a compact merchant vessel. The captain was an aged veteran of the seas and eyed Frentis with no small amount of suspicion, saying something to the woman which made her laugh. “He says you look like a Northman,” she said in Volarian then gave the captain an answer in Alpiran which seemed to satisfy him. He pointed them to a spot on the mid-deck amongst a collection of caged chickens and spice barrels. They were gone from the harbour within the hour, sails unfurled to catch the north-westerly winds.
“How I hate seas, ships and sailors,” the woman said, gazing out at the waves with a grimace. “I once sailed the ocean to the Far West, endless weeks sharing a ship with slaves and fools. It was all I could do not to kill them all mid-voyage.”
There was a shout from one of the crew and they turned to see a young sailor pointing off the starboard bow, yelling in excitement. Frentis and the woman joined him at the rail along with a cluster of crewmen, all jabbering in Alpiran. At first he could see nothing to arouse such interest then noticed a thrashing in the waves some two hundred yards distant, a great sail-like tail rising out of the water. Whale, Frentis decided. He had seen them before, off the Renfaelin shore, impressive beasts to be sure but hardly an uncommon sight for a sailor.
The thrashing abruptly increased and a flash of red appeared amidst the foam, a great pointed head rising from the spume, jaws widened to reveal rows of bright teeth. It disappeared back into the water, a huge tail rising shortly after, more than forty feet in length, the skin shining in the sun, stripes of pale red on the dark grey topside, the underside milky white. The tail whipped from side to side and was gone. The water soon calmed, the red-slicked surface broken only by the bubbles rising from the depths.
“Red shark,” the woman said. “Unusual for them to come so close to shore.”
The crew dispersed after some happy chatter. It seemed this was a good omen.
“They say Olbiss the sea god gave the shark a whale to sate his hunger so we could sail safely on,” the woman observed, turning her face to the sea to conceal her contemptuous grin. “It’ll take more than a whale to sate mine.”
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Land hove into view four days later, a great mountain appearing out of the morning mist. It seemed unnaturally dark to Frentis as the wind pushed them closer, but soon he realised it was covered in forest from top to bottom. She had brought him to another jungle.
Their vessel moored up on a narrow jetty reaching out into a natural harbour on the south shore of this island. The woman named it as Ulpenna, easternmost of the Twelve Sisters, the islands that formed the broken bridge between the continents. He followed her along the jetty to a sizeable town of wooden buildings. In contrast to the ramshackle slave market at the Volarian riverbank, this jungle town displayed an elegance and age indicating many years of settled occupation. The houses were mostly two-storey affairs with ornate wooden statues on every veranda, each one different.
“Each house has its own god,” the woman explained, once again reading his thoughts. “Each family its own guardian.”
They stopped at a tavern and ate a meal of heavily spiced chicken stew, the woman striking up a conversation with the man who served them. Frentis’s Alpiran remained poor but he picked out the words “law” and “house” amongst the babble.
“No guards,” the woman commented when they were alone. “A trusting fellow this magistrate. Popular too, by all accounts. Not what you’d expect for a lawmaker.”
They lingered at the tavern until late afternoon then took the only road, a track of dry red clay trailing out of town and upwards into the jungled slopes of the mountain. They followed the road for another hour before the woman led him onto a side track, through the dense jungle until they came to a large house. It was an impressive three-floored structure built on a ledge in the mountainside, shuttered windows open to the evening breeze coming in off the sea.
“Just the magistrate,” the woman told Frentis as he stripped down to his trews, taking off his boots and smearing earth ov
er his exposed flesh. “Apparently there’s a wife and three children, but you don’t have to concern yourself with them.” She tweaked his nose a little. “Isn’t that kind of me? Now off with you, my love.”
The information from the tavern had been correct, there were no guards. A servant tended the small garden at the rear of the house and another lit lamps on the porch. Frentis approached through the thick undergrowth at a crawl, lying still when he got to within twenty feet of the south-facing wall. He lay against the carpet of vegetation until nightfall then crept forward to the wall. It was an easy climb, the ornamentation favoured by house-builders here provided plentiful handholds.
He hauled himself onto the top-floor veranda, finding an open door. Inside a child was sleeping in a large bed, a small dim shape in the bedcovers. He moved through the room on silent feet and into the hallway beyond finding two other rooms on this floor, each occupied by sleeping children, before making his way downstairs. There were two more rooms here, one a book-filled space he took as a study, empty of any readers, the other a bedroom, the covers on the bed neatly pulled back in readiness. He returned to the landing, hearing the sound of voices from the ground floor.
The staircase creaked as he descended to the hallway, but his step was too light to draw any attention. The voices came from a room at the front of the house, a man and a woman talking on the other side of a closed door. Frentis found a shadowed corner, crouched and waited.
He fancied the itch had grown worse today, building steadily to a true irritation. The binding was loose enough to let him scratch at it, although this seemed to have no effect at all, and once again his fingers revealed a change in the texture of the scar, more smooth flesh amongst the damaged tissue . . .
His head snapped up as the door opened, a woman emerging, glancing back to say something, face lit by the glow of the room. She was somewhere past her fortieth year, a handsome woman dressed in pale blue silks with bound-up hair and an easy smile. A male voice came from the open door and she gave a small laugh then turned away, walking to the staircase and ascending, oblivious to Frentis’s presence.