“Highness, if I may,” ventured Nersa, the taller of the two ladies. She was braver than Jullsa who was wont to lapse into prolonged silence after Lyrna’s more acid rebukes.
“What is it?” Lyrna said, feeling every jab of Sable’s hips despite the thickness of the saddle.
“Are we likely to see one today, Highness?”
Nersa had been fascinated by the prospect of laying eyes on a Lonak since leaving Varinshold. Lyrna put it down to the morbid curiosity of youth, like a child who prods at the guts of a dead dog. But so far the fabled wolfmen had been absent from their path, at least as far as they could tell. None can hide so well as a Lonak, Highness, the Brother Commander back at Cardurin had warned her, a husky man with bright shrewd eyes. You won’t see them, but by the Departed they’ll see you before you’re ten miles from this city.
Watching the pass grow in size as they approached, a shadowed cavern cleaving into the mountain, Lyrna saw the first sign of fortification, a squat tower covering the southern approach, a faint speck of blue on the battlements. Some lonely brother on the morning watch no doubt.
“If not here, then likely not at all,” she told Nersa. Despite her brother’s assurances she still harboured deep doubts about this whole enterprise. Can they really want peace after so many centuries?
The Brother Commander waiting at the tower was somewhere past his fortieth year with cropped silver-grey hair and pale eyes beneath a scarred brow. He voiced his greeting in a harsh, battle-seasoned voice, bowing as low as formality required. “Highness.”
“Brother Commander Sollis is it not?” She climbed down from Sable, resisting the urge to rub some feeling into her benumbed rump.
“Yes, Highness.” He straightened, gesturing at two more brothers standing nearby. “Brothers Hervil and Ivern will also be accompanying us north.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Only three? Your Aspect assured the King of his full support for this mission.”
“There are only sixty brothers to hold this pass, Highness. I can spare no more.” There was a finality to his tone that told her no amount of regal intimidation, or grace, would change his mind. She had heard of him of course, the famed sword-master of the Sixth Order, scourge of Lonak and outlaw, survivor of the fall of Marbellis . . . Master to Vaelin Al Sorna.
Father, I beg you . . .
“As you will, brother,” she said, smiling. It was one of her best, gracious, not overly dazzling, with just the right amount of admiration in her eyes for the dutiful brother. “I would, of course, never question your judgement in such matters.”
The dutiful brother stared back with his pale eyes, face betraying no emotion whatsoever.
This one’s different, at least. “The guide is here?”
“Yes, Highness.” He stepped aside, gesturing at the tower. “I’ve had food prepared.”
“Most kind of you.”
The tower interior had seen some recent and vigorous scrubbing but still retained the cloying, sweaty odour of men living in close proximity. She looked at the plain but copious array of food on the table before the fireplace, finding the seats bare of occupants, as was the rest of the chamber. “The guide?” she enquired of Sollis.
“This way, Highness.” He moved to a heavy door at the rear of the chamber, working a key in the large padlock on the handle. “We were obliged to quarter her downstairs.”
He hauled the door open, revealing a set of descending stone steps, lifting a torch from an iron brace on the wall. “If you would care to follow me.”
Lyrna turned back to Nersa and Jullsa. “Ladies, please remain here and partake of the meal the brothers have kindly provided. Lord Marshal, if you could attend me.”
She and Smolen followed Sollis down the winding steps to a small chamber, lit only by a narrow window inset with iron bars. A woman sat in shadow at the far end of the chamber, long legs clad in dark red leather protruding into the light, eyes glittering in the gloom. She stirred at the sight of Lyrna, shifting into a crouch, the chain around her ankle jangling on the stone floor.
“This is our guide?” she asked Sollis.
“It is, Highness.” The hardness of his expression as he stared at the shadowed woman told her much of his regard for this whole adventure. “Arrived two days ago with a note from the High Priestess herself. We gave her bed and board as ordered and that night she knifed one of my brothers in the thigh. I considered it prudent to confine her here.”
“Did she have cause to attack the brother?”
Sollis gave a small sigh of discomfort. “Seems he refused to assuage her . . . appetites. A terrible insult in Lonak society, apparently.”
Lyrna moved closer to the Lonak woman, Sollis keeping two paces ahead, hands loose at his sides. “You have a name?” she asked the woman.
“She doesn’t know Realm Tongue, Highness,” Sollis said. “Hardly any do. Learning our words sullies their soul.” He turned to the Lonak woman. “Esk gorin ser?”
She ignored him, shuffling forward a little, her face becoming clear. It was smooth and angular with high cheekbones, her head almost entirely bald but for a long black braid protruding from the crown to snake down over her shoulder, a steel band shining on the end of it. She wore a sleeveless jerkin of thin leather, an intricate mazelike tattoo of green and red covering the skin from her left shoulder to her chin. Her gaze scanned Lyrna from head to toe, a slow smile coming to her lips. She said something in a rapid tumble of her own language.
“Ehkar!” Sollis barked, stepping closer, glaring a threat.
The woman stared back and smiled wider, showing teeth that gleamed in the gloom.
“What did she say?” Lyrna asked.
Sollis gave another discomforted sigh. “She, erm, wants food, Highness.”
Lyrna’s Lonak had been learned from a book, the most comprehensive guide she could find in the Great Library. An aged master from the Third Order had tutored her in the various vowel sounds and subtle shifts of emphasis that could change the meaning of a word or a sentence. He had freely admitted his understanding of the wolfmen’s tongue was patchy and dulled with the years since he had journeyed north in his youth, gleaning knowledge from a few Lonak captives willing to talk in return for freedom. Nevertheless, Lyrna had sufficient command of the language to produce a rough translation of the woman’s words, but decided she would enjoy hearing the dutiful brother say it.
“Tell me exactly what she said, brother,” she commanded. “I must insist on it.”
Sollis coughed and spoke as tonelessly as possible. “When the men are on the hunt Lonak women look to each other for . . . nightly comforts. If you were of her clan, she’d want them to stay on the hunt for good.”
Lyrna turned to the Lonak woman and pursed her lips. “Really?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Kill her.”
The Lonak woman jerked back, the chain between her fists, ready to ward off a blow, eyes fixed on Sollis in readiness for combat, even though he hadn’t moved.
“It seems she speaks Realm Tongue after all,” Lyrna observed. “What’s your name?”
The woman scowled at her, then abruptly laughed, rising from her crouch. She was tall, standing an inch or two higher than both Sollis and Smolen in fact. “Davoka,” she said, raising her chin.
“Davoka,” Lyrna repeated softly. Spear, in the archaic form. “What are your instructions from the High Priestess?”
Davoka’s accent was thick but the words spoken with enough slow precision to be understood. “Take the Merim Her queen to the Mountain,” she said. “See she arrives whole and living.”