Despite being repeatedly chased away by Davoka, Alturk’s daughter continued to return, her wide blue-eyed stare unwavering. Lyrna showed her how to work poor Nersa’s tortoise-shell comb through her hair, an activity she seemed to find tirelessly engaging.
“You have brothers and sisters?” Lyrna asked her, sitting on her bed with her back to the girl, whose small hands were guiding the comb through the long mane, still damp from washing.
“Kermana,” the girl replied. Any large number not easily counted. “And ten mothers.”
“That’s a lot of mothers,” Lyrna observed.
“Used to be eleven, but one joined the Sentar so Alturk killed her.”
“That’s . . . very sad.”
“No it’s not. She beat me more than the others.”
“Must’ve been her blood mother,” Davoka commented. “They always beat you more.”
“How many mothers for you, Queen?” the girl asked Lyrna. Like Davoka she was unable to comprehend the difference between a queen and a princess.
“Just one.”
“Did she beat you?”
“No. She died when I was very young. I have little memory of her.”
“Was it on the hunt or in battle?”
“Neither. She just got sick.” Like my father, although she died too soon whilst he died too late.
A woman appeared at the entrance, young in years but no less fierce in aspect than the warriors outside. Davoka had marked her as Alturk’s eldest daughter, charged with bringing them food and fuel, a task she usually performed in stern-faced silence. “You are to bring the Merim Her to the Tahlessa’s fire tonight,” she told Davoka. Her gaze tracked to Lyrna, taking in the sight of her younger sister tending hair. She barked a harsh command, beckoning to the girl who grimaced in annoyance but obediently slid off the bed to trot to her side.
“Leave that,” the young woman commanded, seeing the comb she still held in her hand.
“She can have it,” Lyrna said. “A . . . queen’s gift.”
“The blood of Alturk need no gifts from you,” the woman snarled back, twisting the comb from the girl’s grasp, drawing a pained sob.
“I said let her keep it!” Lyrna got to her feet, meeting the woman’s gaze.
The Lonak woman was almost shaking in rage, her hands inching towards the antler-handled knife in her belt.
“Mind the word of the Mountain,” Davoka told her in a quiet voice.
The woman seethed for a moment more then tossed the comb back to her sister, her furious gaze never leaving Lyrna. The little girl looked at the comb in her hand then threw it on the floor and stamped on it. “Merim Her are weak!” she hissed at Lyrna then ran from the hall.
The young woman gave Lyrna a final sneer of disdain before following.
“You are not queen here,” Davoka said. “Never forget they hate you.”
Lyrna looked down at the fragments of tortoise-shell. “They do,” she agreed, then turned to Davoka, smiling faintly. “But you don’t, sister.”
Predictably, Alturk’s dwelling proved the largest in the village, a stone-walled circle some twenty paces in diameter with a slanted roof of slate. Night had fallen by the time Davoka led Lyrna inside, finding the clan chief seated before a raging fire, the flames rising from coals heaped into a pit in the centre of the floor. He was alone save for a young man who stood at his shoulder, arms crossed and favouring Lyrna with the customary glower, and a large hound which sat at his feet gnawing on an elk bone.
“I understand,” Alturk began in Realm Tongue, apparently finding the offer of a greeting a pointless affectation. “My first daughter gave offence to the queen.”
“It was nothing,” Lyrna told him.
“Nothing or not, she showed weakness in failing to properly mind the Mahlessa’s command. I whipped her myself.”
“We are grateful for your consideration,” Davoka told him in Lonak before Lyrna could say anything.
He accepted the words with a nod, looking Lyrna up and down. “You are strong enough to travel.” There was no question in his tone.
“We will depart on the north-eastern trail come the dawn,” Davoka said. “I require ponies and an escort. A full war-band should be enough.”
The young man standing at Alturk’s shoulder gave a scornful laugh, falling to silence at a glare from the clan chief. “You can have the ponies, but there is no war-band to send with you,” Alturk said. “The hunt for the Sentar has taken all my warriors save the few I can spare to guard the villages.”
Davoka’s jaws bunched and her response was edged with suppressed anger. “I have counted over two hundred warriors in this village.”
Alturk shrugged. “The Sentar are many, and your sister’s blood-thirst insatiable. The Grey Hawks look to their Tahlessa for protection, I will not deny them.”
“But you would deny the word from the Mountain.”
Alturk got to his feet. He wore no weapons but the power evident in him was threat enough. “The Mahlessa sends no command for me to muster arms for your onward journey. I have honoured the word of the Mountain by providing succour to this gold-haired quim you fuss over like a nesting she-ape.”
Davoka gave a shout of fury, hefting her spear, a war club appearing in the hand of the young Lonak as she did so.
“NO!” Lyrna said, raising a hand and stepping in front of Davoka. “No, sister. This will do no good.”
The Lonak woman looked away, nostrils flared as she fought the desire for battle, then slowly lowered her spear. Lyrna turned to Alturk. “Tahlessa, I thank you for your hospitality. I, Princess Lyrna Al Nieren of the Unified Realm, am in your debt. We shall be on our way come morning.”
The pony they gave her made Lyrna pine for poor slaughtered Sable. It was an ill-tempered beast, prone to unbidden trotting and likely to rear in protest at the slightest provocation. It also had the boniest back she had ever encountered, the thin goatskin saddles the Lonak used offering little protection for her behind which now perched on what felt like a jumble of rocks covered with a thin blanket. Smolen seemed similarly discomfited by his mount, squirming somewhat as they trekked away from the Grey Hawk village, whilst Sollis and Ivern were fairly at ease on their ponies and Davoka, of course, rode hers as if she had known it for years. She led them on at a brisk trot, keen to cover as much distance as possible before nightfall. Lyrna glanced back at the village before they crested a rise at the north end of the valley, wondering if Alturk’s daughter would find the lock of golden hair she had hidden in the women’s hall, deep in a gap in the stone walls, only reachable by small hands.
“I trust you were not mistreated, good sirs,” Lyrna said to the three men as they traversed a shallow stream.
“Only if silence is a form of torture, Highness,” Ivern replied.
“For you it usually is,” Sollis muttered.
“No time for talk,” Davoka told them. “Need to be at the rapids by sun fall.” She kicked her pony to a canter, obliging them to follow suit.
As always, Lyrna found the relentless hours in the saddle irksome, but not quite so miserable an experience as before. Her back and legs didn’t ache so much and her thighs seemed to have become more resistant to chafing. She was also aware her ability as a rider had improved, where before she had struggled constantly to stay in the saddle at the gallop, now she moved in concert with the horse, even experiencing a small thrill in the exhilaration of speed as her hair trailed in the wind and the pony’s hooves drummed on the earth. Perhaps I’m becoming Lonak, she thought with a grin.