“I am a princess, not a queen.”
“A queen she said. A queen you are.” There was a certainty to the woman’s words that warned Lyrna further questioning on this point would be unwise. The meagre collection of works on Lonak history and culture in the Great Library had been vague and often contradictory, but they all agreed on one point: the words of the High Priestess were not to be questioned.
“If I release you, are you going to stab any more brothers, or make unseemly suggestions that insult their calling?”
Davoka cast a contemptuous glance at Sollis, muttering in her own language: Wouldn’t sully my nethers with any of these limp-pricks. “No,” she told Lyrna.
“Very well.” She nodded at Sollis. “She can join us for dinner.”
Davoka sat at Lyrna’s side at dinner, having glared at Jullsa to make a space. The lady had blanched and excused herself from table, curtsying to Lyrna before rushing off to the chamber she and Nersa had been given. I’ll send her home in the morning, Lyrna decided. Not so hardy as I hoped. In contrast, Nersa seemed fascinated by Davoka, stealing glances over the table, earning a fierce glower or two in return.
“You serve the High Priestess?” Lyrna asked Davoka as the tall woman ate, slicing pieces of apple into her mouth with a narrow-bladed knife.
“All Lonak serve her,” Davoka replied around a mouthful.
“But you are of her household?”
Davoka barked a laugh. “House? Hah!” She finished her apple and tossed the core into the fireplace. “She has a mountain, not a house.”
Lyrna smiled and summoned up some patience. “But you have a role there?”
“I guard her. Only women guard her. Only women can be trusted. Men act crazy in her presence.”
Lyrna had read fanciful accounts of the supposed powers of the High Priestess. Noble-hearted men driven to insane passions by the merest glimpse, according to a somewhat lurid tome entitled Blood Rites of the Lonak. Whatever the truth of it, all the accounts pointed to a strong belief in her Dark powers. In truth, it was this, rather than her brother’s entreaties that had made her agree to this expedition.
Many years of study, quiet investigation, tortuous cross-referencing but still no evidence. Look in the western quarter for the tale of the one-eyed man, he said, that day he stole a kiss before the entire Summertide Fair. And she had. The tale, brought to her by the few servants she could trust to seek answers in the capital’s poorest quarter, had seemed absurd at first. One Eye was king of the outlaws and could bind men to him by will alone. One Eye drank the blood of his enemies to gain power. One Eye defiled children in dark rites conducted in the catacombs beneath the city. The only certainty to the tale was its end; One Eye had been killed by the Sixth Order, some said by Al Sorna himself. On this all the sources agreed, but on little else.
And so she kept looking, gathering accounts from all over the Realm. A girl who could call the wind in Nilsael, a boy who could talk with dolphins in South Tower, a man seen raising the dead in Cumbrael. A hundred or more fantastical tales, most of which turned out to be exaggeration, misunderstanding, gossip or outright lies on further investigation. No evidence. It maddened her, this absence of clarity, this lack of an answer, spurring her on, making her deepen her research, becoming a burden to the Lord Librarian with her constant demands for older and older books.
She knew much of this interest stemmed from the simple fact that she had little else to do. Her brother’s rule left her with no real place at court. He had a queen now, little Janus and Dirna to secure his line and a boundless supply of advisors. Malcius liked advice. The more the better, especially when one advisor contradicted another, which of course would require him to order the matter at hand be subject to further investigation, usually so thorough in nature it was several months before a conclusion had been reached and the matter had resolved itself or been superseded by more pressing affairs. In fact the only advice Malcius wouldn’t listen to was that offered by his sister.
Never forget, her father’s words, spoken to a little girl many years ago as she pretended to play with her dolls. A man who asks for advice is either indulging in the pretence of consideration or too weak to know his own mind.
To be fair Malcius always knew his own mind when it came to one thing: bricks and mortar. “I will make this a land of wonders, Lyrna,” he told her once, laying out his grand plan for a reborn western quarter of Varinshold, broad streets and parks replacing narrow alleys and slums. “This is how we secure the future. Give the people a Realm fit for living, not merely existing.”
She loved him, it was true, a fact she had demonstrated in the most terrible manner. But her dearest brother was the most colossal fool.
“How many men do you have, Queen?” Davoka asked her abruptly.
Lyrna blinked in surprise. “I . . . have fifty guardsmen as my escort.”
“Not guards. Men . . . Husbands you call them.”
“I have no husband.”
Davoka squinted at her. “Not one?”
“No.” She took a drink of wine. “Not one.”
“I have ten.” The Lonak woman’s voice dripped with pride.
“Ten husbands!” Nersa said in astonishment.
“Yes,” Davoka assured her. “None of them with more than one other wife. No need when married to me!” She laughed and thumped the table, making Nersa jump.
“Guard your tongue, woman!” Lord Marshal Al Smolen growled at her. “Such talk is not fit for Her Highness’s company.”
Davoka rolled her eyes, reaching for a chicken leg. “Merim Her.” She sighed. Sea scum, or debris swept onto the shore, depending on the inflection.
“How many days to the Mountain of the High Priestess?” Lyrna asked her.
Davoka clamped the chicken leg into her mouth and held up all ten fingers then repeated the gesture.
Twenty more days in the saddle. Lyrna suppressed a groan and reminded herself to ask Nersa for some more salve.
Jullsa cried and begged to be allowed to stay. Lyrna gave her one of the bluestone-inlaid silver bracelets she kept for such occasions, a purse of ten golds and thanked her for her service, assuring her she would write to her parents in the most glowing terms and that she was always welcome at court. She walked to Sable as Nersa soothed her weeping friend.
“You do right, Queen,” Davoka said from the back of her sturdy pony. She was dressed in a thick wolf fur and carried a long spear with a triangular blade of black iron, the sharpened edges bright in the rising sun. “That one’s weak. Her children will perish in their first winter.”
“Call me Lyrna.” She hauled herself into the saddle. The riding gown was pleated from waist to hem to allow her to ride full saddle but she found it still too constricting for comfort.
“Lerhnah,” Davoka repeated carefully. “What does it mean?”
“It means my mother was fond of her grandmother.” She smiled at Davoka’s confusion. “Asraelin names don’t mean anything. We name our children on a whim.”
“Lonak children name themselves.” Davoka shook her spear. “Named myself when I took this from the man I killed.”
“He had wronged you?”
“Many times. He was my father!” She laughed and spurred her pony forward.
The fortifications of the Skellan Pass were a complex maze of walls and towers, each great stone barrier angled so as to funnel any attacking force into a tight killing space. Lyrna admired the intelligence behind the design, the way it allowed for continuous defence even when one part of the fortifications had fallen to an enemy, the towers and walls arranged in ascending heights depending on how deep they were in the pass.
Sollis led them through ten gates, each protected by a thick iron portcullis that had to be hauled up to allow egress. Despite the strength of the defences she could see the truth of his words; there were too few brothers to man the fortifications. She saw Davoka’s narrowed gaze as she surveyed the walls and knew she was coming to the same conclusion. Is this all a ruse? Lyrna thought. A design to place a spy here to report on the state of the defences.