Lyrna gave a small nod.
“But you, Queen, are not joined.” Her gaze ranged over Lyrna, it was not the gaze of any adolescent girl, Lonak or no. “You’ve never known a man.”
Lyrna said nothing, watching the girl’s features as she laughed, soft mocking rasps. “I’ll make you a bargain, Queen,” she said. “I’ll answer any question you have with an honest tongue, and all I ask is a taste of that unsullied peach between your legs.”
Is this it? Lyrna wondered. Is this finally my evidence? “What are you?” she asked.
The girl’s laughter subsided after a moment and she lay back against the rock with the same bored expression as before. “I am Kiral of the Black River Clan and true Mahlessa to the Lonakhim.” She looked away, staring into the fire, still and indifferent, her face blank of all expression.
Lyrna returned to the larger fire, sitting down at Davoka’s side. The Lonak woman seemed reluctant to meet her gaze. “I can’t kill her, Lerhnah,” she said after a moment, a note of apology in her tone.
Lyrna patted her hand and settled down to sleep. “I know.”
Two more days brought them within sight of the Mountain, the home of the Mahlessa. It rose from the floor of a small valley nestling between two of the tallest mountains, a circular spike of stone, curving up from a wide base to a needle-sharp point at least three hundred feet in the air. It seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, but as they drew nearer Lyrna saw it was honeycombed from base to top with balconies and windows, all hewn out of the rock. From the weathering of the surface she judged this a truly ancient structure, the architecture so unfamiliar as to appear alien, like something from a distant land never visited by modern eyes.
“The Lonakhim built this?” she asked Davoka.
She shook her head. “It was waiting for us at the end of the great travail. Proof that the gods had not turned their sight from the Lonakhim. For who else could craft such a gift?”
They entered via a tunnel, the walls ascending to meet overhead in an elegant arch of stone. There were no guards at the mouth of the tunnel and they proceeded unchallenged into the Mountain’s interior. After a hundred paces the tunnel opened out into a broad courtyard, ringed by balconied walkways bathed in sunlight shafting through the many circular windows. A number of women were waiting there, some armed and wearing similar garb to Davoka, others dressed more simply in robes of black or grey. Their age ranged from young to old and none seemed perturbed by their appearance, although the sight of Kiral provoked some hard stares from the women bearing arms.
“I see you had an interesting journey,” a short, blunt-faced warrior said, coming forward to take the reins of Davoka’s pony. “I trust you have a story for the fire.”
“More than one.” Davoka dismounted, favouring the blunt-faced woman with a warm grin. “We need rooms, Nestal.”
“Ready and waiting.” Nestal’s gaze roamed their company, settling on Lyrna. “Queen,” she said, with an incline of her head. “The Mahlessa asked that you be brought to her as soon as you arrived.” She turned to Kiral, her expression hardening. “Together with this one.”
Lyrna had expected the Mahlessa to make her home on one of the Mountain’s upper floors but Davoka led her to a stairwell in the centre of the chamber, the spiral course descending into shadow.
“No!” she barked when Smolen and the two brothers attempted to follow. “Stay here. Men do not look upon her.”
Smolen seemed about to protest but Lyrna held up a hand. “I doubt your sword would aid me here, Lord Marshal. Wait for me.”
He bowed and stepped back, standing stiffly at attention, every inch the loyal guards officer, albeit one without armour or any vestige of his former finery save his sword and the boots he had contrived to retain, and even they had lost their previous mirrorlike sheen. For the first time in days it occurred to her that her own appearance was hardly more edifying. No more ermine robes or finely tailored riding gowns, just sturdy leather garb and hardy boots, scuffed and dusted from the trail. But for her hair she might well have been taken for Lonak.
“Please, sister!”
She looked round to see Kiral resisting Davoka’s tug on her leash. Her once-passive features now so riven with fear it almost seemed she wore a mask. “Please,” she begged in a terrorised rasp. “Please if you ever thought me your sister, kill me! Do not take me to her!”
She continued to beg and struggle as Davoka took hold of her and forced her to walk down the stairwell, her pleas becoming plaintive shrieks as they descended into the shadows. No fear of death, Lyrna thought. What awaits her below is worse.
She smoothed her hands over her dusty, trail-marked clothing and followed them down.
CHAPTER THREE
Reva
She ran, until her lungs burned and her legs ached, she ran. Away from the road, away from him, away from the lies, through the long grass and into the trees. She ran until exhaustion sent her sprawling in a painful tangle of sword and cloak. Scrambling to her feet, she cast about for landmarks, chest heaving from exertion and panic. He’ll come after me, hunt me down, make me listen to more lies . . .
She began to run again, tripping almost immediately as her fatigued foot found a tree root. She fell to her arms and knees, sobbing in hard, aching jerks, her mind racing. If he did exist, his bishops say he hates you for what you are . . . You were sent in search of a thing that can’t be found in the hope that I would kill you . . . A fresh martyr . . .
“LIES!” Her voice resounded through the trees, wild and feral. The trees, however, had no answer save for the creak of wind-stirred branches.
She sat back on her haunches, face raised to the sky, mouth wide as she drank the air. She knew now Al Sorna wasn’t coming in pursuit, his skills were such that finding her would have been a simple matter, but here she sat, alone. She remembered the edge of despair in his voice as he called after her, a note of defeat . . . I now deny my song though it screams at me to let you go.
Follow your song, Darkblade, she thought. I’ll make my own.
She ran a shaking hand through her too-long hair, her sluttish, Asraelin hair. Filthy, Fatherless sinner . . .
The priest! The priest will have answers to these lies. She would return to him and he would speak the truth and the World Father would once again bless her with his love, prove she was not hated, prove the sin had been beaten from her, prove she was worthy of His holy mission . . . Worthy to carry her father’s sword.
The sword. The prospect of returning to the priest without it, demanding he answer the Darkblade’s lies no less, was absurd. But if she had the sword, his face would reveal all the truth she needed. The sword was the truth.
She opened her eyes to the stars, picking out the Stag. The fore-hoof, she knew, pointed almost directly due south, towards Cumbrael, the Greypeaks . . . and the High Keep. Perhaps it was still there, lying unclaimed in a shadowed corner of the Lord’s chamber, waiting for her. If not, then she had little chance of finding it elsewhere.
The thought came to her as she started to rise, a swift treacherous whisper in her mind. Go back. They will welcome you.
“With lies!” she hissed back.