Morning brought a light rain and the sound of Ranter’s voice, rousing her from a fitful sleep. The fire had burned down to a pile of black-grey ash, the rain washing it away to reveal a jumble of human bone and grinning skulls.
“Oh my fallen brothers!” Ranter cried. “To be taken by the Dark. May the Departed cleanse your souls.”
“Not the Dark,” Reva told him, yawning. “Just a knife, a bow, a sword and the knowledge to use them.”
Ranter started to voice a reply but choked instead, coughing and rasping. “I . . . thirst,” he croaked.
“Drink the rain.”
The brothers had left a clutch of good horses, food for several days, plus a decent harvest of coin. Reva chose the tallest of the horses, a somewhat feisty grey stallion with the rangy look of a mount bred for the hunt, and scattered the rest. At Modahl’s insistence the brothers’ weapons had all been heaped onto the fire the night before, Arken making a disgusted noise when his father gently but firmly tugged the sword he had claimed from his grasp.
The family’s wagon was still intact along with the oxen that pulled it, although the contents had been badly ravaged, evidenced by the sight of Ruala crying over the ripped and tattered remains of her doll.
“We were heading for South Tower,” Arken said. “We have family there. It’s said Tolerants have less to fear under the gaze of the Tower Lord of the Southern Shore.”
“They hunted you,” Reva said.
Arken nodded. “Father is keen to speak the words of Toleration to all who will listen. He hopes to find more willing ears in the south. It seems Aspect Tendris didn’t relish the prospect.”
Reva’s gaze was drawn to the sight of Modahl laying out a blanket in the back of the wagon, casting aside sundry items as he endeavoured to clear a space. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“For the injured brother,” he explained. “We must find him a healer.”
Reva moved close to the man and spoke very quietly into his ear. “If you attempt to make your daughter share a wagon with that piece of dung, I’ll hack his head off and throw it in the river.”
She lingered for a moment, eyes meeting his to ensure he understood. Modahl’s shoulders slumped in weary defeat and he began ushering his family onto the wagon.
“There’s a village some miles east of here,” Reva said. “I’ll ride there with you if you wish.”
Modahl seemed about to protest but his wife spoke up first, “That would be greatly welcome, my dear.”
Reva mounted the grey hunter and trotted over to where Ranter was slumped against the tree.
“Will you . . . kill me now . . . witch?” he enquired between rasps, his eyes two black coals in the pale wax of his face.
Reva took a full canteen from the hunter’s saddle and tossed it into his lap. “Why would I do that?” She leaned forward, casting a meaningful glance at his useless legs. “I’m hoping you live a very long time, brother. If the wolves or the bears don’t get you, of course.”
She turned the hunter and cantered after the wagon as it trundled on its way.
The village proved a strange place, Cumbraelin and Asraelin living side by side and speaking a strange accent that seemed to accommodate only the most jarring vowels from both fiefs. It was clearly an important way-station from the numerous travellers and wagoners milling about. Wine going north, steel and coals going south. A company of Realm Guard was in evidence, the soldiers policing the cross-roads about which the village clustered, ordering diversions and clearing blockages to ensure the trade kept moving. A temple to the World Father stood on the south side of the cross-roads, facing a mission house of the Fifth Order on the other side.
“The Order will have salve for your cuts and such,” Reva told Modahl. “Best if you tell them it was outlaws. They stole but were on their way quickly. No need to trouble the guards.”
Modahl gave a slow nod, his eyes betraying a severe wariness. No room for killers in his heart, Reva surmised. Even though he’d tend to them if they lay dying. What comedy their faith is.
“Our thanks go with you,” Eliss said as Reva tugged on the grey’s reins. There was genuine warmth in her eyes, and gratitude. “We would welcome your company on the road come the morrow.”
“I’m bound for the Greypeaks,” she replied. “But I thank you.”
She guided the horse further into the village, glancing back to see Arken gazing after her from the rear of the wagon, raising a hand in hesitant farewell. Reva waved back and rode on.
The inn was the smallest of the three found in the village, a sign above the door proclaiming it as the Wagoner’s Rest. The interior was crowded with travellers and drovers, mostly men with wandering hands, quickly withdrawn at the sight of a half-bared knife. She found a stool in a corner and waited for the serving girl to come round. “Shindall owns this place?” she asked.
The girl gave a wary nod.
Reva handed her a copper. “I need to see him.”
Shindall was a wiry man with a fierce growl to his voice. “What’s this you bring me?” he demanded of the serving girl as she led Reva into a back room where he sat counting coin. “Makin’ me lose count with some boney wh . . .” He trailed off as his eyes found Reva’s face.
She placed her thumb on her chest, above her heart, and drew it down, once.
Shindall gave a barely perceptible nod. “Ale!” he barked at the serving girl. “And a meal, the pie not the slop.”
He pulled a chair over for Reva to sit at the table, his eyes fixed on her face as she unbuckled her sword and removed her cloak. He waited until the serving girl had come and gone before speaking, a hushed reverent whisper. “You are her, aren’t you?”
Reva washed down a mouthful of pie with a gulp of ale and raised an eyebrow.
Shindall’s voice dropped even further and he leaned closer. “The blood of the Trueblade.”
Reva smothered a surprised laugh, the man’s earnestness was both funny and disconcerting. The light in his eyes calling to mind the dozens of idiot heretics who had gathered at Al Sorna’s house. “The Trueblade was my father,” she said.
Shindall stifled a gasp, clasping his hands together in excitement. “Word came from the priest that we should expect news of you soon. News that would shake the foundations of the Heretic Dominion. But I never thought, never dreamed I would see you myself, certainly not here in this hovel where I play innkeeper.”
Word came from the priest . . . “What did he tell you?” she enquired, keeping her tone light, only mildly curious. That I’d be dead soon? That you had a new martyr to worship?
“The priest’s messages are brief, and vague, for good reason. If the Fief Lord or the heretic King were to intercept them, too much clarity could undo us all.”
She nodded and returned to her meal. The pie was surprisingly good, steak marinated in ale and baked with mushrooms in a soft pastry.
“If I may,” Shindall went on. “Your mission, though I would never dare ask its object, is it complete? Do we finally draw near our deliverance?”
Reva gave a bland smile. “I need to find the High Keep. The priest told me you had charge of seeing pilgrims safely there.”
“Of course,” he breathed. “Of course you would want to undertake the pilgrimage, whilst time remains.” He rose and went to a corner of the room, the one least favoured by the lamplight, bending down to lift a brick from the base and extract something from the space behind.
“Drawn on silk,” he said, placing a rectangle of material in front of her, no more than six inches across. “Easy to hide, or swallow should you need to.”
It was a map, simply drawn but clear enough to follow, a line stretching from a cluster of icons she took to be the village, winding its way past mountain and river until it ended at a black symbol shaped like a spear-point.
“Six days’ travel from here,” Shindall told her. “Not so many pilgrims these days so the way should be clear. There are friends of ours there, playing the role of beggars in need of shelter.”
“It’s not garrisoned?” she asked in surprise. She had been considering various notions of how best to sneak into the keep under the nose of the Fief Lord’s guards.
“Not since the Trueblade fell. The drunken whore-chaser in Alltor seems happy to let it fall to ruin.”
Reva finished her meal, draining the rest of the ale. “I’ll need a room for tonight,” she said. “And a stable for my horse.” She offered him payment which he refused, leading her to a room on the upper floor. It was small and not especially clean but the sight of the narrow bed, the first she had seen since leaving the Darkblade’s house, dispelled any misgivings.
“I met him once,” Shindall said, lingering at the door, eyes still fixed on her face. “The Trueblade. It was not long after the Father had saved him from the outlaw’s arrow, the scar was still fresh, red like a ruby, bright in the morning air when he stood up to speak. And his words . . . so much truth to hear in the space of a few moments. I knew then I had heard the Father’s call in those words.” His gaze was intense and the thickness in his voice reminded her of the swordsmith in Varinshold when he said, “You have his eyes.”
