“Doubly generous,” Uncle Sentes said. “For he contrived to place her in my manor the very night three assassins came to kill me. But for her I wouldn’t be standing here.”
The Reader’s shock was genuine, she could see it, the start that made his aged jowls wobble, the slight frown of consternation; the face of a man suffering an unpleasant surprise. “The Father be thanked you are not hurt, my lord,” he gasped. “The assassins, do they live?”
“Sadly, no. One was slain by my wonderful niece, a second by my guards.” He paused, his gaze still fixed on the Reader’s face. “But one escaped. A man my niece insists is a priest in your church.”
The Reader’s alarm was also genuine, but not so surprised as before. He knows, Reva thought. He knows who the priest is. She found her fists clenching as the old man made a show of sorrowful reflection.
“Sadly the priestly calling does not make us immune from misguided notions,” he said. “Your brother’s words, heretical though they were, found many willing adherents, including some amongst the priesthood. I shall, of course, exhaust every resource available to the church to bring this rogue to justice. If you could furnish a description . . .”
Veliss produced a second smaller scroll and placed it on his desk. “Ah, efficient as ever, my lady,” the Reader said. “It shall be copied and distributed to every chapel within days. The fugitive will find no refuge in the church, I assure you.”
Reva took a step towards him, fists aching now, finding her uncle’s hand on her arm, gentle but firm.
“Your consideration is appreciated, Holy Reader,” he said. “I believe we have troubled you enough for one day.”
“Feel free to trouble me on all days, my lord.” He smiled at Reva. “Especially if the company you bring is so delightful as today.”
Her uncle tugged her arm and started for the door, but Reva didn’t move just yet. “‘Deceit,’” she said to the Reader, “‘is the hardest sin to divine, for many a lie is spoken in kindness, and many a truth in cruelty.’”
He kept it from his face, but his eyes gleamed with it, just for a second: anger. “Quite so, my dear. Quite so.”
“Reva,” Uncle Sentes said from the door.
Reva bowed to the Reader and followed her uncle from the room. The sneering priest stood in the hallway, regarding her with unmistakable contempt.
“Pardon me,” Reva said, pausing. He was a tall man and she was obliged to look up at him, though not tall enough to be out of reach. “Your nose appears to be bleeding.”
He frowned, fingers coming up to touch his nose, coming away clean. “I don’t . . .”
His head snapped back from the force of the blow, nose breaking, though not with enough force to kill him. He stumbled backwards to collide with the wall, sinking to the floor, blood streaming down his face.
“My mistake,” Reva said, moving on. “Now it’s bleeding.”
“That was unbecoming,” Uncle Sentes reproached when they had returned to the manse, going to the library where a fresh bottle of wine was already waiting. Lady Veliss, however, seemed to be smothering a laugh.
Reva slumped into a chair, unbuttoning her hateful collar and scratching furiously. “That old man is a liar,” she stated.
“Evidently,” he replied, removing the cork and sniffing the bottle’s contents. “Umblin Valley, five years old. Very nice.”
“So that’s it?” Reva asked. “He lies to your face and you do nothing?”
The Fief Lord merely smiled and poured the wine.
“We imparted a warning,” Veliss said, glancing up from her desk, the one Reva had paused at during her mission to retrieve the sword. Veliss was still engaged in study of the same book, the one about money and wine-making, her desk stacked high with copious notes. “The great hypocrite will be on the defensive now.”
“Where I would like to keep him for good,” Uncle Sentes added. “Something your vaunted grandfather never quite managed.”
“He knows,” Reva said. “The priest, where he is. I can tell.”
“Hungry for vengeance, love?” Veliss asked. “Did he treat you so badly?”
Filthy, Fatherless sinner . . . Reva got up from the chair, moving to the door. “I’m going to change.”
“It would help if we knew more about him,” Veliss said, making her pause. “About how you were raised. Where exactly was it? A castle, a cave in the mountains?”
“A barn,” she replied in a mutter before leaving the room.
She went to her room, undressing with an urgency that left several rips in the dress, tossing it into a corner. She changed into her preferred garb of riding trews and loose-fitting blouse, provided at her insistence despite Veliss’s objections. I’ll find him myself, she decided as she laced up her boots. Sneak into the cathedral tonight and make the old man spill his secrets . . .
There was a knock on the door, soft but insistent. She opened it to find her uncle there, his expression kind but insistent. “A barn?” he said.
She sighed, moving back and sitting on the bed. He came in, closing the door and sitting next to her. She was surprised to see he had no bottle with him. They sat in silence for a moment, Reva trying to form words that might make some sense to him. “It was big,” she said eventually. “The barn. No animals, no ploughs, just me and him, and a lot of straw. My first clear memory is of climbing up and down the beams. If I fell, he’d beat me.”
“He did that many times?”
“More than I could count. He was skilled with the cane, leaving no scars, save this one.” She pulled back her hair to reveal the mark above her right ear from the time he had beaten her unconscious.
“Do you know where it was, this barn?”
“It sat amidst broad fields, the grass was long and visitors were rare, stern men who looked at me with odd expressions. He called them his brothers, they called him the Truepriest. There was one man though, different from the others. He came only once or twice a year, and the priest would make me stay in the shadows when he did. I couldn’t hear what they spoke of, but I’m fairly certain the priest called him ‘my lord.’”
“Can you describe him?”
“Broad across the shoulders, not particularly tall. He had a bald head and a black beard.”
She saw recognition dawn in his eyes. She waited for him to name the man but instead he said, “Go on. What else can you remember?”
“As I grew older he began to take me to the village where he went for supplies. I had little experience of other people and hardly any notion of how to act around them, shouting and pointing in excitement the first time. That earned me a beating. ‘You must not be noticed,’ he said. ‘You must pass through the lives of others leaving no mark.’ Later he would send me on my own at night, either to steal or to contrive a means of overhearing a conversation. Practice for my holy mission, I suppose. I began to know the villagers quite well, their gossip giving me a fine insight into their lives. The baker’s wife was carrying on with a tinker who came by every two weeks. The wheelwright had lost a son at Greenwater Ford. The village priest was far too fond of the ale. Then one night, I happened upon an open window . . .” I knew her only as the carpenter’s daughter. She stood before a basin, guiding a washcloth over her skin. The light from the lantern seemed to make her skin glow, her hair like gold . . .
“Reva?” Uncle Sentes prompted.
She shook her head. “The priest had been following me, every night, without my knowledge. I lingered by that window too long. The next day he gave me this.” She touched a hand to her scar.
“The name of the village?”
“Kernmill.”
This seemed to confirm a suspicion in his mind and he nodded. “I’m sorry, Reva,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I may not be the best Fief Lord, but I’m resolved to be the best uncle. And as a present to my niece I intend to find this priest and watch when you gut him. Would you like that?”