Tower Lord (Raven's Shadow #2)

Tower Lord (Raven's Shadow #2) Page 143

“Welcome, Highness,” the Shield greeted her, bowing low, “to the Queen Lyrna. My gift to you.”

The woman gave a slight nod, looking around with keen eyes. “My brother’s fleet had a ship called the Lyrna. I wonder what became of her.” She paused as her gaze fell on me and I saw her scars plainly for the first time, the waxy mottled flesh that covered the upper half of her face, the mutilated ear only partially hidden by the scarf.

I lowered my gaze as she approached, falling to one knee with head bowed, as I had in her brother’s throne room a few short months before. “Highness,” I said.

“Do get up, my lord,” she told me and I raised my gaze to find her smiling. “We have an appointment I believe.”

CHAPTER ONE

Lyrna

There were perhaps fifty people waiting on the riverbank as the boat brought her to shore. There was no sign of any ceremony, just a cluster of hard-eyed, somewhat bedraggled people watching the boat approach with either distrust or puzzlement, many curious eyes lingering on the burnt-faced woman in the headscarf. The Shield stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the tall figure in the centre of the group. He seems so pale, Lyrna thought, unable to slow the sudden thump of her heart. At Vaelin’s side stood an athletic young woman with a sword strapped across her back, long auburn hair tied back from a face of near-flawless porcelain, provoking an unwelcome stirring of jealous regret in Lyrna’s breast.

Stop that! she commanded herself. A queen is above envy.

But it was hard to watch the way the young woman kept close to him, eyes on him constantly, brows furrowed in concern. She recognised some faces amongst them; Brother Caenis, stern-faced and standing slightly apart from the others. Al Melna, the young captain from the Mounted Guard, holding the hand of a woman with long dark braids and a fresh scar above her eye. Also, the late Tower Lord’s adopted daughter, another who seemed keen to stay close to Vaelin.

The keel scraped through the reeds at the bank’s edge and Ell-Nestra stepped ashore, offering a typically accomplished bow to the assembly. “Atheran Ell-Nestra, Shield of the Isles,” he said, straightening to offer a humourless smile to the tall man. “Although, I believe I know one of you, at least . . .”

Vaelin barely glanced at him, moving forward with an expression of blank amazement as Lyrna stepped from the boat flanked by Iltis and Benten. He halted a few feet away, staring in unabashed wonder as she tried not to shrink from his gaze.

After a moment he blinked and sank to both knees. “Highness,” he said in a voice so thin and strained she wondered if it was truly his, the expression on his face one of overwhelming relief. “Welcome home.”

The Fief Lord’s manor seemed to be the only building in Alltor to have escaped the siege untouched. Lyrna’s passage through the city had been marked by the destruction she saw at every turn. Most of the bodies had been cleared away and numerous fires were burning outside the walls alongside the many graves dug by the Cumbraelins. The Volarian dead were being carted a few miles to the south and heaped into a quarry to be covered with earth and no words spoken to mark their passing. It seems the Volarian general’s wife was one of only five hundred survivors from their entire army.

She stood before her now, face tensed with suppressed pain, hands clasped in front of the belly where her unmourned husband had kicked her. The assembled captains of the army stood behind her along with Lady Reva’s court. They were a disparate bunch: a bewhiskered old guardsman who had somehow contrived to survive the siege, a veteran archer apparently of Vaelin’s prior acquaintance and an Asraelin woman with a falsely cultured accent who seemed keen not to meet Lyrna’s gaze for any longer than necessary. Whatever their differences, their fervent loyalty to their new Lady Governess matched the sentiment of the entire city. I’ll have to watch her, Lyrna decided with a note of regret, smiling at the young woman standing to her left. A realm can’t have two queens.

She was seated in an ornate chair on the dais in the Lord’s chamber. Lady Reva had offered the use of the Lord’s Chair but Lyrna wouldn’t hear of it. “That belongs to you, my Lady Governess.”

On her right stood Vaelin, arms crossed and his too-pale face drawn with a weariness that made her worry he might collapse at any moment. But throughout the petitions and judgements that had occupied the preceding hours he stood straight and still with no word of complaint or request for a chair.

“We’ll speak in Realm Tongue,” Lyrna told the general’s wife. “For the benefit of all present.”

The Volarian woman inclined her head. “As you wish.”

Iltis stepped forward with a fierce glower. “The prisoner will address the queen as Highness,” he stated.

The woman winced in discomfort, hand spasming over her midriff. “As you wish, Highness.”

“State your name,” Lyrna told her.

“Fornella Av Tokrev Av Entril . . . Highness.”

“You are hereby judged as an aggressor to this Realm, having made war upon us without just cause, employing such means as to befoul the very name of humanity. The sentence is death.” She watched the woman’s face carefully, finding some fear, but less than she’d hoped for. Could it be true? she wondered, recalling Verniers’ tale. Has she really lived so long death holds little threat?

“However,” Lyrna went on, “Lord Verniers has spoken in your favour. He tells me you are a woman of considerable practicality and, whilst you were happy to profit from the many horrors visited upon this Realm, you took no direct part in it. For this reason I am minded to be merciful, but only on the condition that you answer all questions put to you without hesitation or deceit.” She leaned forward, her gaze boring into the woman’s eyes as she added in Volarian, “And believe me, honoured lady, we have those amongst us who can hear a lie as if it were a scream, and pull the secrets from your head after we hack it from your shoulders.”

The woman’s fear deepened slightly and she gave a nod, making Iltis stamp his foot. “I agree to your terms, Highness,” she said quickly.

“Very well.” Lyrna reclined in the chair, fingers gripping the sides for a moment. “There will be a more detailed questioning in private later. However, Lord Verniers tells me your husband spoke of returning to Varinshold to await the next wave. What did he mean?”

“The next wave of reinforcements, Highness,” Fornella replied with a gratifying lack of hesitation. “The forces that were to occupy this land and prepare for the next stage.”

“Stage?” Lyrna frowned. “If your invasion was complete, what next stage could there be?”

The Volarian woman shifted, suppressing a shudder of pain. “The seizure of this realm was but a first step in a larger design, Highness. This land offered certain geographical advantages for the fulfilment of the ultimate objective.”

Lyrna sensed Vaelin straighten beside her, turning to find him frowning at the woman in intense concentration before breathing a sigh of frustration.

“My lord?” Lyrna asked him in concern.

“Forgive me, Highness.” He offered a wan smile. “I am . . . very tired.”

She surveyed his face, taking in the reddened eyes, the hollow cheeks and the great sadness that clouded his gaze. She knew what he had done the day before, in time she expected the whole world would know, and wondered if it was the killing that brought this malaise. She had always thought of him as immune to such pettiness as guilt or despair, his actions always being so far above reproach. But now . . . Can he really be just a man after all?

“Speak plainly,” she said, turning back to the prisoner. “What exactly is this ultimate objective?”

“The Alpiran Empire, Highness.” Fornella seemed puzzled she hadn’t already divined such an obvious answer. “The invasion of this realm was a precursor to the seizure of the Alpiran Empire. By the summer of the next year an army will be launched from this realm’s ports to land on the empire’s northern coast. A second force of similar strength will launch a simultaneous attack across the southern border. And so the long-held dream of the Volarian people will be fulfilled.” The woman’s smile was barely noticeable. “Your pardon, Highness, but I must tell you this invasion was never more than an opening move in a much larger game.”

“Yes,” Lyrna replied after a moment’s consideration. “A game I’ll finish when I watch Volar burn.”

That evening there was a banquet of sorts. Despite the siege the Cumbraelin capital seemed to be well stocked with supplies and the manse’s long dining table was piled high with food as well as numerous wine bottles of impressive vintage. “My uncle’s collection,” Lady Reva explained. “I’ve already given most of it away to the townsfolk.”

They stood together in the grounds of the manor a short distance from the open dining-room windows, Iltis and Benten standing no more than a dozen paces away on either side. The Asraelin woman, apparently Honoured Counsel to the former and current holder of the Lord’s Chair, stood just outside the windows, her stance and expression rigidly neutral but her gaze bright and unwavering as she surveyed their meeting.