He halted, resting his back against the wall, regarding her with the same troubled expression from before, when he had named the bow. “And now here you are, lost daughter of House Mustor, making an art of battle the way Arren made an art of the bow, carrying one of your family’s greatest treasures found by pure chance. A life of war, sustained by mere luck, has given me occasion to doubt the sight of the Father. But you, my lady, do give me pause.”
She moved next to him, looking at the far bank. There was a caravan making its way towards the Volarian camp, bulky wagons drawn by oxen, men in black riding escort. After a moment they came to a halt, one of the riders dismounting and moving to the last wagon. He disappeared inside for a moment then emerged pulling a young man behind him. The man had something binding his wrists, making it seem as if he begged as the rider forced him to his knees. Something glittered in the rider’s hand and the young man fell forward, a faint plume of red trailing from his neck. The rider bent down to remove his chains then remounted his horse, the caravan continuing on at a sedate pace leaving the corpse behind on the bank.
“I too have doubted the sight of the Father,” Reva confessed. “I have seen ugliness, cruelty, lies . . . betrayal. But I’ve also seen beauty, kindness and friendship. If this city falls, I’ll never see any of it again, nor will any of us. And I have a sense the Father’s sight does fall here. I can’t explain it, but I know it.”
She watched the caravan until it came to a halt on the fringes of the Volarian camp, not fully within the picket line.
“They haven’t fortified the eastern bank,” she observed to Antesh. “We have boats don’t we?”
Antesh refused to countenance her going, to the point that he threatened to give up his Lordship and become a common archer if she didn’t agree. He sent thirty picked men in a dozen boats, launched from the north shore of the city shortly past midnight. The Volarians had left them in peace this night so all was quiet until they returned, pulling hard on the oars towards the eastern wall, the slavers’ camp burning behind them and each boat laden with freed captives. The tide was friendly at this hour and they didn’t have to fight the current, but the Volarians provided plenty of danger in the sheets of arrows they launched in pursuit. Most boats pulled free but the last fell victim to the iron rain. They had freed over forty people, about half Realm Guard the others Cumbraelin, mostly younger folk, signs of recent mistreatment obvious in the pale-faced stares of the women.
The picked men had also contrived to bring her a gift. He was a tall man in a black leather jerkin with large hands that would plainly have preferred to be holding a whip rather than confined by his own manacles.
He drew back from the sight of Reva as the picked men dragged him ashore, eyes wide in fear, his lips forming a tremulous whisper. “Elverah!”
“What do you want done, my lady?” asked the raid leader, a hard-eyed veteran Antesh knew from the desert war.
“Put him on top of the gatehouse,” she said. “Wait until midmorning to be sure they’re all awake to see it, then cut his throat.”
PART IV
You will know him by the blade he carries and the Dark-born skill with which he wields it, for none who know the love of the Father may defeat the Darkblade yet all must stand against him.
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
Another interminable day and still it hadn’t fallen. More smoke, more wounded straggling back, more rage from the general. It has caused me guilt since, but I must confess I began to hate these Cumbraelins as much as he did, for if they would just succumb to their inevitable defeat, then there would be no more reason for me to be there on that hateful ship suffering his inventive cruelties.
I had come to understand that the general was not a truly intelligent man, he was cunning and manipulative with a keen eye for opportunity, but so are many children. No, I am ever more convinced he was in fact a stupid man, but privilege had contrived to provide him an education, and an educated sadist knows well how to punish a scholar. I was commanded to learn by heart the complete poems of Kirval Draken, easily the worst poet in Volarian, or any language for that matter, and guilty of inflicting the most sentimental, unmetred drivel on the human ear. I was given an hour to learn all forty poems and recite them perfectly for the general’s entertainment, standing on the prow of the ship, calling forth the doggerel as sweat streamed down my face and back, for he had promised instant death if I stumbled but once.
“My lady’s lips bud like roses, and burn like fire upon mine own, I weep my tears of joy then grief, for now our love has flown.”
“Excellent!” the general applauded, lifting his wine cup in appreciation. “More!”
“A hero comes with sword laid bare, his steel shines bright and true . . .”
He waved me to silence as a messenger approached from the shore, climbing aboard and handing over a scroll. “A breakthrough, eh?” he said to the messenger. “About time.”
“Yes, Honoured General. My commander advises that with sufficient reinforcement the city will be ours by nightfall.”
“No. The reserve must be husbanded to secure the rest of this rain-sodden dung pile. Tell him to hold off the attacks in other sectors and concentrate on the breakthrough. And tell him if this city isn’t mine by nightfall, I’ll expect him to have secured a sufficiently heroic death, because he’ll get none from me.”
He waved the messenger away and turned back to me. “Do you know, slave, I believe I’ve forgotten where we left off. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”
He had me recite it all three times over, every dreadful line penned by that talentless Volarian dullard. Even now, so many years later, I can still recite Draken at will. Not quite the worst of my scars, but still a painful reminder.
I was released come the afternoon, sent below to my cabin whilst he occupied himself with another pleasure slave until word of victory came. I sank onto my bunk, shaking with exhaustion and fear, and would have vomited if my stomach had anything to give. However, even this mean respite was to be cut short. The door opened and one of the mistress’s slaves beckoned to me. “You’re wanted.”
She was in her own cabin, a cavernous space of silk drapery and cushioned comfort in comparison to my narrow prison. She wore a white gown with a neckline plunging to the soft curve of her belly, the skirts transparent and revealing as she walked towards me, a little unsteady on her feet and a wine cup raised to her lips. “You’ve heard, no doubt?” she asked in slow deliberate tones. “The great siege is almost over? My honoured husband’s triumph nearly complete?”
“I have, Mistress. A great day.”
She sputtered into her wine, stumbling as she laughed. “A great day! Yes, an ancient child wins a new toy. A great day indeed.” She frowned, blinking and grimacing. “I haven’t been drunk for over fifty years. I think I’m remembering why.”
Fifty years? She saw my confusion and laughed again, just a small giggle, like a little girl with a secret. “Older than I look, my lord. How much older do you think?” She moved closer, making me fight the urge to step away. “Honestly now, how old would you say I am?” She pushed an insistent finger into my chest. “And I command you to speak the truth!”
I took a breath, wondering how a man could feel so much fear and still keep his mind. “I cannot believe my mistress is more than thirty years old.”