She saw a slight flush on his face as he turned towards her, a flustered hesitancy in the way he hefted his knife. It’s not shame, she realised. I’ll have to stop jumping on him.
For the next four days she spent an hour at night and another in the morning attempting to teach him the basics of the knife, finding it a mostly hopeless task. He was big and strong but had none of the speed or agility required to match even her weakest efforts. In the end she told him to put the knife away and concentrated on unarmed combat. He did better at this, mastering the simpler combinations of kick and punch with relative ease, even landing a stinging blow on her arm as they engaged in some light sparring.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped as she rubbed at the bruise.
“For what? My fault for being too”-she ducked under his guard, delivered a hard open-handed smack to his cheek and twisted away before he could react-“slow. That’s enough for tonight. Let’s eat.”
She was aware allowing him to stay was another indulgence, meeting a need for human company unfulfilled since her escape from Al Sorna. Also, he had taken on the role of menial without complaint, making the fire, seeing to the horses and cooking the meals every night with an almost martial efficiency. This is unfair, she thought, watching him cut strips of bacon onto the skillet. I don’t need his help. And the way he looks at me . . . It wasn’t lustful exactly, or leering in any way. More a kind of longing. Still just a boy.
The High Keep came into view the next day, a jagged spike in the distance. From the tales she had heard of the place she had expected something grander, taller, a fabled castle fit for her father’s martyrdom, but its lack of glamour became more obvious the closer they came. There were large holes in the walls and jagged gaps in the battlements, as if some giant had come along and taken a few bites out of the stonework. The road on the earthen ramp leading up to the gates was marked by patches of broken stone and home to a herd of long-horned mountain goats, feeding on the weeds sprouting from the paving and paying them scant heed as they passed.
“It’s amazing!” Arken enthused as they stood before the gate, looking up at the walls rising above. “Never knew a tower could rise so high.”
A squeal of metal called their attention to a door set into the gate, seeing an aged face peering out from the shadowed interior. “Got nothing here worth stealing,” it said.
Reva made the sign of the Trueblade and the hostility faded from the face. “Best come in,” it said then disappeared back into the gloom.
The old man stood back as she entered. Reva found it impossible to guess his age, anywhere past his seventieth year was her best estimate from the sagging wrinkles dominating his features. He wore mean clothing which she doubted had seen a wash-stone for some months, his torso wrapped in a threadbare blanket. He carried a head-high staff, more, she suspected, for support than armament from the way he leaned on it. “Vantil,” he introduced himself. “And I think I know who you are.” He nodded at Arken, left standing outside with the horses. “Him I don’t.”
“He has my trust,” Reva said.
That seemed to be enough for Vantil as he began hobbling towards a steep flight of stone steps. “’Spect you want to see the chamber first.”
“Yes.” Reva found her heart was beating harder than it had when she faced Ranter and his brothers. “Yes I would like that.”
It was just a room. Larger than the others they passed on the way, and in a similar state of disrepair, but still just a room, chill stone and shadow, empty save for a high-backed chair facing the door. At her request Vantil provided a torch and she began to scour the shadows, playing the flame over the walls, behind the pillars, beneath the chair.
“Don’t you want to pray before the chair?” Vantil asked, clearly puzzled by her behaviour.
Reva ignored the question, completing her first search of the room and immediately starting another, then another. Every corner of the chamber examined, every possible hiding place prodded, every shadow banished with the torch. Nothing.
“How long have you been here?” she asked Vantil.
“Came not long after the Trueblade fell.”
“You must know what I seek here.”
The old man shrugged. “To offer prayers for the Trueblade. To speak to the Father in the place of his holy martyrd-”
“He had a sword. Here in this room when he died. Where is it?”
Vantil could only shake his head in bafflement. “No sword here, and I know this keep better than any living soul. Everything got taken, if not by the Darkblade’s cutthroats then by the Fief Lord’s House Guards.”
“The Darkblade didn’t take it,” she muttered. “When did the Fief Lord’s men come?”
“They come every year, make sure the place is empty of pilgrims. We hide in the mountains until they’re gone. The last visit was two months ago.”
So many miles for nothing. It wasn’t here, Al Sorna’s men didn’t take it which left the Fief Lord, in Alltor.
“Do you have somewhere I can rest for tonight?” she asked Vantil.
“The blood of the Trueblade is welcome here for as long as she likes.” He fidgeted for a moment, his staff beating on the stones a few times. “The, ah, prayers?” he asked.
Reva gave the chamber a final glance. An empty chair in an empty room. No sign of the Trueblade, not even a bloodstained stone to mark his passing. Did he ever think of me? she wondered. Did he even know I lived?
“The Father knows well the depth of my love for the Trueblade,” she told Vantil, moving to the door. “I’ll need a bed for the boy as well.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Frentis
He found a hiding place in the hills several miles from the villa, a cluster of rocks atop a rise affording a clear view of the surrounding scrub desert, with sufficient brushwood for fuel and a rudimentary shelter. He set the stallion loose, whipping it towards the south in the hope it would lead any pursuers away. She continued to bleed that first night, thick streams of red flowing from her nose, ears and eyes, the dampness on her trews indicating she bled from everywhere she could. He stripped her and continued to wipe the blood away until, slowly, the flow began to ebb. She lay pale, naked and senseless, her breathing shallow, no fluttered eyes or groans to signal she might be dreaming. It occurred to Frentis that she might never wake, and if so, he could well be sitting here watching over her corpse for the rest of his life. The binding was as strong as ever, the itch vanished. He was hers again, even though she was defenceless, even though he wanted to sink his knife into her chest over and over. Instead he nursed her, kept her warm and sheltered against the night’s chill, until her eyes snapped open on the morning of the third day.
She smiled when she saw him, gratitude shining in her eyes. “I knew you couldn’t abandon me, my love.”
Frentis stared back, hoping she saw the hatred in his gaze, and said nothing.
She pushed aside the cloak he had used to cover her, stretching and flexing her limbs. She was thinner, but still lithe and strong . . . and beautiful. It made him hate her even more.
“Oh don’t sulk,” she said with a groan. “They were a necessity. For us as well as the Ally. You’ll understand in time.”
She grimaced at the sight of her blood-soiled clothing but pulled on the black cotton shirt and trews without hesitation. “Do we have food?”
He pointed to the only game he had been able to catch, a rock snake, caught, skinned and filleted the day before. He hung the strips of meat over a low-burning fire to smoke, finding it surprisingly tasty fare.