She quickly discounted the thought, recalling the shrewd-eyed brother’s warnings about the omniscience of the Lonak this far north. They know how weak we are here, yet instead of attacking, the High Priestess sends word that she wants to talk peace, but only to me.
It took over an hour of tortuous winding through pathways between the walls and gates, built so narrow as to allow only one horse to pass at a time, before they finally emerged on the northern side of the pass. The rain had abated today and the sun shafted through the clouds, curtains of light descending on the mountainous dominion of the Lonak. The peaks stretched away into the distance, formidable, blue-grey monsters of granite and ice.
Davoka raised her head to the sky, breathing deep then exhaling in a rush. Clearing the stench of us from her lungs, no doubt, Lyrna surmised.
The Lonak woman guided her pony to the head of the column, taking the narrow, rock-strewn path descending to the floor of the valley beyond. She gave no instruction or gesture, beginning the descent without preamble, seemingly expectant that they would follow without question. Lyrna saw the suspicion on Smolen’s face and gave him a nod of assent. She could tell he was biting down words of argument as he barked a command to his men.
They journeyed for another four hours, tracking over an array of valley and hillside interspersed with small patches of pine forest. Lyrna found there was a stark beauty to be found this side of the pass, the grey monotony of the country north of Cardurin replaced with a land of shifting hues, ever-changing skies allowing the sunlight to paint the rocky outcrops and heather-clad hills with a varied palette, rich in colour and very pleasing to the eye. Perhaps this is why they fight so hard to keep it, she thought. Because it’s beautiful.
When the Lonak woman finally called a rest Nersa placed a silken pillow on a patch of heather and presented Lyrna with a luncheon of chicken and raisin bread, together with a goblet of the dry Cumbraelin white she liked so much. Dessert consisted of a selection from their diminishing supply of chocolate fancies.
“Look like rabbit turds,” Davoka said, giving one of the sweets a suspicious sniff. She had hunkered down to join their lunch without asking permission. It seemed the Lonak shared food without favour or propriety when on the march.
“Try one,” Lyrna said, popping a fancy into her mouth. Rum and vanilla, very nice. “You’ll like it.”
Davoka took a cautious bite of the sweet, her eyes widening in instant delight, which she was quick to conceal, muttering a phrase in her own language as she frowned in self-reproach. Comfort makes you weak.
“You carry a weapon,” she said, pointing to the trinket hanging on a chain around Lyrna’s neck. “Can you use it?”
Lyrna held up the trinket. A plain throwing knife of the type commonly used by the Sixth Order, little bigger than an arrowhead. It was the least ornate piece of jewellery in her entire extensive collection, and the only one worn with any regularity, at least when she was safely away from the eyes of the court.
“No,” she said. “It’s just a keepsake. A gift from . . . an old friend.” Father, I beg you . . .
“No use carrying a weapon you can’t use.” Faster than anyone could give thought to stopping her, Davoka leaned forward and hooked the chain and knife over Lyrna’s head. “Here, I show you. Come.” She rose and walked towards a small pine growing near the edge of the trail.
Nersa rose to her feet in outrage. “You insult Our Highness’s person! The Princess of the Unified Realm does not sully herself with martial pursuits.”
Davoka gave her a look of total bafflement. “This one speaks words not in my head.”
“It’s all right, Nersa.” Lyrna got to her feet, calming the lady with a touch to the arm, speaking softly. “We need to make all the friends we can here.”
She followed Davoka to the pine. The Lonak woman detached the knife from the chain with a sharp tug and held it up to the sunlight. “Sharp, good.” She moved in a blur, the knife spinning from her hand to bury itself in the pine trunk.
Lyrna glanced over to where Sollis sat with his two brothers. He watched the scene with no sign of amusement on his face. She noted he had placed his bow within reach, an arrow notched to the string.
“You try, Lerhnah.” Davoka returned from the pine having worked the knife loose from the bark.
Lyrna looked at the knife in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. All the years she had owned it she had never once attempted to use it for its true purpose. “How?”
Davoka gestured at the pine. “Look at the tree, throw the knife.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Then you miss. Throw again and miss. Again and again until you hit. Then you know how.”
“It’s really that easy?”
Davoka laughed. “No. Really hard. Learning any weapon really hard.”
Lyrna looked at the tree, drew her arm back and threw the knife as hard as she could. Nersa and the guards spent a half hour searching before it was found amongst the surrounding heather.
“We try a bigger tree tomorrow,” Davoka said.
They covered what felt like a hundred miles by nightfall, but Lyrna knew it was closer to twenty. Davoka chose a campsite atop a rocky rise overlooking a small vale, a position both Sollis and Smolen pronounced defensible on all sides. Smolen organised his men in a perimeter around the camp, with Sollis and his two brothers no more than ten feet from Lyrna’s tent. Dinner was roasted pheasant with the last of the raisin bread, a treat Davoka seemed to enjoy greatly, albeit without any words of appreciation.
“So, Lerhnah,” she said when the meal was complete, squatting in front of the fire, hands raised to the warmth. “What stories do you offer?”
“Stories?” Lyrna asked.
“Your camp, your stories.”
There was a gravity to the Lonak woman’s voice as she spoke the word “stories,” similar to how some of the more devoted Faithful spoke the word “Departed.” Lyrna’s researches had contained numerous references to the respect the Lonak had for history, but she hadn’t realised it approached religious fervour.
“It’s their custom, Highness,” Sollis said from the other side of the fire. “Doesn’t have to be long, just true.”
“Yes,” Davoka insisted. “Truth only. None of the lies you write down and call poems.”
Truth only. Lyrna concealed a wry smile. How long since I did that? “I have a tale,” she told Davoka. “It’s very strange and, although many swear to its truth, I cannot confirm it. Perhaps if you hear it, you can be the judge.”
Davoka sat in silent contemplation for a moment, brow furrowed. This, it seemed, was an important decision. Eventually she nodded. “I’ll hear it, Queen. And tell you if I hear truth.”
“I’m glad.” Lyrna straightened on her pillow, offering Sollis a gracious smile through the flames. “And you, brother. I would greatly appreciate your opinion of this tale, I call it the Legend of the One-Eyed Man.”
His pale eyes betrayed nothing. “Of course, Highness.”
She paused for a moment to modulate her breathing. She had been trained in oratory, at her own insistence, since her father regarded the art with a measure of disdain; he always did prefer speaking in private. “Over ten years ago,” she began, “in the city we call Varinshold, a man rose to claim lordship over all the outlaws in the city.”