“Nothing has been yielded,” Lyrna told him. “We have agreed a peace. That is all.”
“A pity. They always made such good sport. The first man I killed was a Lonak, if you could call such as him a man.”
“I can’t let you kill him,” Lyrna told Davoka as her spear began to lower.
“You learned their tongue?” Darnel said with a laugh. “Such accomplishment in one so lovely . . .”
“Did you have other business, my lord?” Lyrna cut in. “We have many miles to cover, and the King awaits my safe return.”
“There was a matter of some import, if we could talk alone for a moment.”
She was tempted to refuse but the lack of civility already on display was making a poor show in front of so many Realm Guard and knights. “Very well.” She dismounted, murmuring to Davoka in Lonak, “Don’t stray too far.”
They walked a short distance from the ranks of horsemen, Lyrna all too aware of so many eyes taking in the scene. “There is one in this fief,” Darnel began, “who plots against my Lordship, speaking falsehoods, impugning my honour at every turn. I think you would agree, Highness, that treason against me is tantamount to treason against the crown.”
Lyrna avoided providing an affirmation, answering with a question, “And who is this malcontent?”
Darnel’s mouth twisted around the word. “Banders!”
“Baron Hughlin Banders? The most beloved knight in Renfael, and one of the few captains to return from the Alpiran war with any vestige of honour. This is the man you would name a traitor?”
“I would rule my fief in the King’s name, as ordained by the tenets that bind this Realm in unity.”
How could a man see so much and change so little? she wondered. It was still there, everything that had made her discount her father’s wishes in a heartbeat, in his face, his stance; the ingrained assumption of right, the knowledge of his own brilliance. What a dreadful child he must have been . . . and still is. “This is a free Realm,” she pointed out. “And all may voice their thoughts without fear of persecution.”
“Not when such thoughts amount to sedition. The man holds court, Highness. Lords and commons go to him for counsel, though he holds no position in this fief. A beggar knight in fact.”
“A beggar you would kill, my lord? Hardly a knightly ambition.”
“Despite the lies you may have heard about me, I am not without mercy. Exile seems the most just sentence.”
Also, the least likely to raise the commons against you. Darnel’s display of cunning annoyed her; she preferred him as a dolt.
“Exile and forfeiture of property,” the Fief Lord added. “I will of course, make provision for any dependents.”
There was a weight to these last words that gave her pause. Not just revenge on an old adversary, she decided. He wants more. “I will bring your concerns to the King,” she said, turning away. “Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”
“Only my undying love.”
The sincerity in his voice was disturbing, as was the intensity in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed before how darkly blue they were. Another place, another man, she might have found reason to linger in the sight of such eyes, but here she just wanted to mount her pony and ride away as fast as possible.
“That matter was settled . . .” she began, keeping her voice low.
“Not for me.” He stepped closer and she could tell he was resisting the impulse to reach for her. “Not for one day since. Have you never wondered why I remain unmarried? Why I strive every day to keep the King’s peace though justice cries out for me to gather my retainers and burn Banders’s holdfast down around him? Him and every other ungrateful wretch in this fief. For you, Lyrna. So that you might see me . . .”
“I’ve seen you,” she said, voice hard and flat. “And I’ve seen enough.”
His jaws clenched as he looked down, his voice thin but deep in regret. “That is your final word?”
“My final word regarding you was spoken to my father eight years ago, and I see no reason to speak another.”
When he raised his face the sincerity of his affection remained, albeit dimmed by anger. “If your brother had died at Untesh, you would be queen now. It must have been very affecting to see him return safely home.”
“I assure you, if my brother had perished, you would have been on the first ship back to the empire, presented in chains to account for your crimes.”
“Crimes?” He laughed, harsh and short. “You talk of crimes, as if war is a game, as if rules mean anything in a slaughter, as if they have ever mattered for us, Lyrna. I see you.” He came closer still, dark eyes intent and questing. “I see you, the face you hide from the court and the commons. But I see it, because I see it in me, and I see everything we could be. A union between us would see the whole world at our feet in a decade.”
“When did it happen?”
He frowned. “Highness?”
“When madness supplanted mere cruelty.”
His face froze as if she had struck him, a rigid fury seizing him from head to toe. Davoka’s pony gave a loud snort as she walked him within a spear throw of the Fief Lord.
“I believe,” Darnel grated, “Al Sorna has returned to the Realm, and no longer enjoys the protection of the Sixth Order. A challenge can be made and accepted. Tell me, would you prefer his head or his heart as a tribute?”
“It is my fervent hope, my lord, that you make such a challenge. Then I’ll be able to choose my tribute from whatever remains of you. Perhaps I’ll send it to Marbellis as a small token of recompense.”
He stood still for a moment, frozen in his anger, face quivering before he mastered himself. “I should like, Highness,” he said, his voice a soft rasp, “for you to remember the words you have said to me today. I should like you to remember them for a very long time.”
“Then I regret to tell you, my lord, that I intend to forget them just as soon as you are out of my sight. A circumstance I expect you to bring about forthwith.”
He could refuse, she had no power to command him. She could only expect. It was usually enough, but would it suffice for this handsome madman?
He closed his eyes, breathing softly, a faint whisper coming from his lips, “Faith save me, but I had to try.” When he opened his eyes there was no more anger, not even any cruelty, just numb acceptance. He gave a bow, formal and correct in every way, turned to march back to his horse, mounting and riding away without another word.
“Send me after him,” Davoka said, watching Darnel and his knights crest a rise and disappear from view. “It’ll be done tonight. His heart stops when he sleeps. No blame will arise.”
“No,” Lyrna said, walking back to Surefoot.
“I know men like him, Lerhnah. I’ve killed enough to know them very well. That one won’t stop until he’s made you bleed.”
Lyrna mounted the pony, meeting Davoka’s eyes and giving a firm shake of her head. The Lonak woman gritted her teeth but said no more.
“Lord Marshal Al Smolen,” Lyrna called, the Guard commander quickly riding to her side with a smart salute. “A change of course, my lord. We make for the holdfast of House Banders.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reva
They saw the cathedral spires first, jutting over the crest as they led their horses up the hill. “Faith!” Arken breathed, gazing at the cathedral as they reached the top. The two spires rose from the centre of the city like twin arrows. “How tall are they?”
Reva replied with a quote from the priest, “Tall enough to match the Father’s glory.”
Alltor was another place she had never been, but the priest had told her many stories of the city named for the World Father’s first and greatest prophet. A whole city built in the Father’s honour, a wonder of marble and beauty when it first rose, shaming the wooden hovels of the Asraelins. Looking at the city stretched out before her, Reva couldn’t quell a suspicion that the priest’s description may have been coloured by the assumption she would never set eyes on the place. It was smaller than Varinshold, confined within its walled island in the middle of the Coldiron River, and not quite so smelly, at least from this distance. But she saw no wonder in it, just a jumble of stone buildings under a thick haze of smoke from a thousand chimneys. Only the cathedral came close to matching the visions the priest had conjured in her girlish mind, and even that was a soot-blackened shadow of her imaginings, the marble of the spires darkened from centuries of windblown grime.