“No,” Harlick replied. “All prophecies are false. I see that now. Those with the gift for scrying are usually mad, driven so by the swirl of visions clouding their thoughts and dreams. It is not the future they see, just possibility. And possibility is infinite. Wouldn’t you agree? But for chance it could well have been some malign soul from the Beyond standing before me now, possessing your gift and made Tower Lord no less. Fortune may have proved me wrong, but only by the most slender margin.”
“Not fortune,” Vaelin said. “Blood, most of it innocent, much of it spilled by my hand.”
Harlick gave only a slight nod by way of acknowledgment, regarding Vaelin in resigned expectation. “Thank you for allowing me my tea, my lord.”
Vaelin gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, brother. Arrogant wretch though you may be, I have too much use for you. And there is a great deal for you to balance. You are hereby appointed Archivist of the North Tower.” He waved a hand at the hut’s contents, moving to the door. “Gather your things and be ready to leave by morning. We will have much to discuss at the tower. My lady?”
She paused to offer a stunned Harlick a bow of congratulation then followed him from the hut.
“I do not like that man,” she said as they walked back along the beach.
Vaelin glanced back at the hut, seeing the scholar’s wiry figure outlined in the doorway. “I doubt he likes himse-”
It hit him like a hammerblow, the screaming note of the song surging once more to an instant crescendo. He staggered, feeling blood flow from his nose, collapsing to the sand as the scream brought a vision . . . Flame, all is flame, all is pain and fury . . . A man dies, a woman dies, children die . . . And the scream never ends . . . The flames swirl, coalesce, two dark patches appear, forming into eye sockets as the flames shape themselves into a skull, then a face, perfect and beautiful . . . And familiar . . . Lyrna, formed of fire . . . Screaming.
CHAPTER TEN
Lyrna
The holdfast of Baron Hughlin Banders lay thirty some miles from the Asraelin border, a sprawling structure of varying architecture and mismatched brickwork, some new, some clearly ancient. It sat in the centre of a large estate of forest and rolling hills, well-stocked with deer. They arrived as evening was coming on, greeted a good distance from the main house by a company of knights, over fifty fully armoured men approaching in battle order. The company’s leader revealed a nose marked by a single horizontal scar as he raised his visor, his evident suspicion dissipating at sight of Lyrna. Despite his ruffian-like appearance he possessed the cultured vowels and manners of a blood-born knight.
“My most abject apologies, Highness,” he said, having dismounted to sink to one knee, head lowered. “Such a large party, we mistook your intent.”
“Do not concern yourself, my lord,” Lyrna replied. She had always found the elaborate manners of the Renfaelin knightly class somewhat tedious and was in scant mood to indulge them now. “I come in search of Baron Banders. Is he at home?”
“He is, Highness.” The knight rose and quickly remounted. “Allow me the honour of escorting you to his presence.”
Baron Banders was waiting at the door to his home, unarmoured but holding a scabbarded long sword. Behind him a young woman stared up at Lyrna, clutching the hand of a lanky youth, who, despite his height, couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“Highness.” Banders’s tone and expression were both carefully neutral as he sank to one knee before her. “I bid you welcome. My home is yours.”
“And I’ll gladly stay the night, my lord,” she replied, slipping from Surefoot’s back to stride forward, extending a hand. “But I do require a promise from you first.”
His eyes widened a little at the hand she placed before his lips, famously a sign of great favour she rarely bestowed, before pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Promise, Highness?” he asked, rising as she stepped back.
“Yes, no banquets.” She smiled. “I should like only a quiet meal tonight, and the pleasure of your company of course.”
He introduced the young woman as Ulice, his ward, and the boy as Arendil, her son. No family names were offered but Lyrna’s eyes picked out the similarities between Banders’s and Ulice’s features with ease, the colour and set of their eyes were almost identical. The lack of a family name marked her as an unacknowledged bastard, though one enjoying her father’s care if not his name judging by the clothes she wore. Strangely the boy’s face showed only a slight similarity to his mother and none at all to his grandfather. His eyes were blue whilst theirs were brown and his hair, an untidy cascade of dark curls reaching to his shoulders, made a stark contrast to the sandy mane of his mother and the thinning grey crop adorning Banders’s pate.
They ate a well-cooked but not lavish meal in the main hall, Davoka clumsily dismembering her food with the alien cutlery the servants placed beside her plate with every course. She eyed Lyrna’s actions closely, attempting to copy her grip on the various utensils, mostly without success.
“Eat however you wish,” Lyrna told her. “There will be no offence.”
“You learned my ways,” Davoka replied, frowning in concentration. “I learn yours.”
“You speak Lonak!” Arendil exclaimed, staring at Lyrna in open astonishment. Banders thumped a hand onto the table and the boy quickly added, “Highness.”
“Speaks it better than me, sometimes,” Davoka said, chewing a mouthful of quail. “Knows words I don’t.”
“The princess’s accomplishments are a great example,” Ulice said. She had a shy demeanour, almost fearful, but the gaze she offered Lyrna was rich in honest admiration. “And now she brings a peace that has eluded men for centuries. Would that all ladies could be so accomplished.”
“I hear it’s a hard country north of the pass,” Banders said. “Never been there meself. Fought plenty of Lonak though.” His gaze shifted to Davoka, who grinned back as she chewed.
“Thankfully, those days are now behind us,” Lyrna said. She lifted her goblet, raising it in a formal toast. “Will you drink with me, my lord? To peace?”
Banders’s smile was faint but he lifted his goblet readily enough, drinking as she did. “Peace is always welcome, Highness.”
“Indeed. It also seems to be a concern for your Fief Lord. I had occasion to meet him on the road.”
Ulice’s fork made a loud clatter as she dropped it onto her plate. She blanched as Lyrna’s gaze swung to her, looking down, now visibly pale.
“Are you well, my lady?” Lyrna asked her.
“Forgive me, Highness,” she replied in a whisper. Next to her, Arendil reached out to clasp her hand, face drawn in worry.
“Perhaps, Highness,” Banders said in a somewhat hard tone, “talk of the Fief Lord can wait until after dinner. Such a subject has a tendency to turn the stomach.”
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, save for Davoka’s queries about the food placed in front of her. “Jellee?” she said, prodding the quivering castle-shaped dessert with a spoon. “Looks like snot.”
“I’m sure, my lord,” Lyrna said, “you require no lecture on the Realm’s recent troubles.”
They were in the main hall, alone save for a pair of wolfhounds, both of whom seemed to have taken a liking to her, laying their heads on her knees as she sat beside the great marble fireplace. Banders stood by the mantel, his expression still guarded but she could see the anger in him. “No, Highness,” he replied. “I surely do not.”
One of the wolfhounds gave a loud huff and she ruffled the fur behind his ears. “With the attempt on Tower Lord Al Bera’s life there may be more discord ahead,” she said. “Renfael has been largely free of the riot and lawlessness seen in the wider Realm. I assume you agree it would be best if it remain so.”