An old man’s dreamy ramblings indeed, Lyrna thought, more in hope than conviction. What she had witnessed in the Mahlessa’s chamber plagued her waking hours and her dreams. I searched so far for evidence, now I have it why does it seem such a burden?
The forest began to thin after two more days, eventually opening out into the grassy plain surrounding the walls of Varinshold. The eighth bell was tolling as they approached the north gate and the City Guard were lighting the great oil lanterns on either side of the entrance. Unlike Cardurin there was no bunting or cheering crowds to greet her entry to the city. It seemed her brother felt no need to mark her success and safe return with a public celebration. Probably saving the coin for another bridge, she thought. The usual gawkers and well-wishers lined the streets as the cavalrymen cleared a path for her, and there were a few calls of welcome or congratulation, but none of the adulation she had found in the north. In fact most onlookers seemed more interested in Davoka, some gaping and pointing at the sight of a Lonak riding through the streets of the capital, and a woman at that. Davoka bore the scrutiny with stoic calm, but Lyrna saw her hand tighten on her spear as some ribald comments arose from the spectators.
The crowd was a little thicker at the palace, the guards obliged to become more aggressive in ensuring her passage to the main gate where she was met by a balding, portly man with a wide smile. “Highness,” he greeted her, bowing low.
“Lord Al Densa,” she replied. Al Densa was master of the royal household and normally gave off an aura of perpetual calm, though today he seemed a little more lively.
“The King sends his apologies for failing to greet you in person, Highness,” the portly lord told her. “But today’s joyous event has commanded his attention.”
“Event?” Lyrna enquired, dismounting from Surefoot’s back and handing the reins to a groom.
“More a miracle in truth, Highness. Brother Frentis is returned to the Realm, safe and well, all the way across the ocean. The Departed be thanked for their care of him.”
Frentis? Of all the souls lost at Untesh, Frentis was the one that haunted her brother the most. “Joyous news indeed,” she said.
“I hate to trouble you with correspondence so soon,” Al Densa went on, producing a small scroll and handing it to her. “But the King seems keen to afford the fellow all cooperation.”
“Fellow?” Lyrna unrolled the scroll, revealing neat and well-scribed lines of Realm Tongue, although the letters were formed with some unusual flourishes.
“An Alpiran scholar, Highness. Come to write a history of some kind. The King thinks indulging him will offer a chance at healing the rift between our nations.”
Lyrna’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the signature on the scroll. “Verniers Alishe Someren. The Emperor’s personal historian. He’s here?”
“He was, Highness. The King acceded to his request to accompany the Realm Guard on their excursion to Cumbrael. However, as you see from his letter, he is very keen to secure an audience with you.”
She was familiar with Verniers’ work of course, though it suffered in translation from Alpiran. She had intended to work on her own version of his Cantos, if she ever got the time. A historian seeks the truth, at least a good one does. He comes to ask about my father and his mad war. “Of course I’ll see him,” she told Al Densa. “Please arrange the meeting as soon as he returns.”
Al Densa bowed. “I shall, Highness. For now, however, the King requests your attendance in the throne room. Brother Frentis and his companion are being conveyed there as we speak.”
“Companion?”
“A Volarian woman. It seems they were slaves together. The details are vague as yet, but clearly we can look forward to a tale of great adventure.”
“Clearly.” Lyrna beckoned Davoka and Arendil closer. “The Lady Davoka, Ambassadress of the Lonak Dominion, and Squire Arendil of House Banders, soon to be made ward of the King. They require suitable lodgings.”
“Of course, Highness.”
“For now I’ll take them to my rooms. Tell the King to expect me shortly.”
“Brother Frentis!” Arendil enthused as Lyrna led them along the many corridors to her suite in the east wing. “He’s almost as great a hero as Lord Al Sorna. Will I get to meet him?”
“I expect so,” Lyrna replied. “And when you meet the King do try to remember to call him ‘Highness.’ Such niceties are expected of palace guests.”
Her rooms were as she remembered, every furnishing and ornament just as they had been left. Her many books sat on their long shelves in the order she had decreed, the leather bindings dusted and shining but otherwise untouched. The desk where she spent so many hours held the full ink bottle and freshly cut quills she required be placed there every morning. And her bed, her wonderful bed. So soft, so warm . . . so very big. It was strange, everything else in the room seemed to have shrunk, but the bed had somehow contrived to grow.
Who lives here? she wondered, going to the desk and placing The Wisdoms of Reltak next to the stack of parchment. Which lonely old woman lives here and spends her days in endless scribbling?
She permitted her maids some fussing before ordering a suitable gown laid out and food brought for her guests. “I don’t know how long this will take,” she told Davoka when she had exchanged her riding gown for a blue silk dress with a gold-embroidered bodice. She stood in front of the mirror as one of the maids pushed her coronet into the remolded mass of her hair. “Best if you wait here with the boy. I’ll arrange a time for you to meet the King on the morrow.” She turned as Davoka failed to answer, finding the Lonak woman staring at her, a faint frown on her brow. “What is it?”
“You are . . . different,” Davoka said softly, eyes tracking over Lyrna’s form.
“Just trappings, sister,” she replied in Lonak. “A disguise in fact.” Save for this, she thought, fingering the throwing knife hanging from the chain about her neck. She had taken to wearing it openly since leaving the pass but decided it was probably best to keep it hidden once again, so took it off to hide behind the laces in her bodice. Never be without it.
“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren!” The page at the door announced her entry with a booming voice, thumping a staff onto the marble floor of the throne room three times. Lords only got one thump of the staff, Aspects two, she and the queen three. It was one of the rituals her father had instigated on assuming the throne. She had once asked him the significance of the thumping staff and received only a wry smile in response. All ritual is empty, Reltak had written. The more of the long-dead Lonakhim scholar she read, the more she appreciated his insight.
“Sister!” Malcius came to greet her, his embrace warm and close. “Your adventures had me greatly worried,” he whispered into her ear.
“Not so much as I. We have much to discuss, brother.”
“All in good time.” He stepped back and extended his hand to the two figures standing in the centre of the room, a young man and woman, dressed in mean clothing, but also both handsome of face and athletic of build. The man was well muscled with a stern visage, his features possessed of a hungry leanness. The woman was no less striking, lithe like a dancer and darkly beautiful. She seemed somewhat overawed by her surroundings, keeping close to the man’s side and casting wary glances at the assembled lords and guards.
“You are in time to join me in a joyous occasion,” Malcius said, moving towards the young man. “Brother Frentis.” He shook his head in wonder. “How you gladden my heart!”
Lyrna moved to her usual seat on the left of the throne, pausing to press a kiss to the queen’s cheek on the way and exchange hushed greetings with her niece and nephew. “Did you bring me a gift, auntie?” little Dirna asked.
“I did.” She tweaked her niece’s nose, drawing a giggle. “A Lonak pony for you and a new playmate for your brother. We’ll all go riding tomorrow.”
“I come . . .” Brother Frentis was saying in a halting voice as she took her seat. “I come, Highness. To beg . . . forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” the King replied with a laugh. “Whatever for?”
“Untesh, Highness. I couldn’t hold the wall . . . My men . . . My failure saw the city fall.”
“The city was always going to fall, brother. Do not seek forgiveness for an imagined failing.”
Lyrna noticed Lord Al Telnar, onetime Minister of Royal Works, standing at the far side of the room. His expression, normally one of smug self-satisfaction or obsequious solicitation, was oddly tense as he offered her a bow. She had heard from a maid that he had been the one to recognise Frentis at the docks that very day, a perfect opportunity to curry lost royal favour. So where is his triumph? she wondered. Or his customary leer? The man had been another unwelcome suitor over the years, one she dismissed with almost as much alacrity as she had dismissed Darnel, but like the Fief Lord it hadn’t dimmed his ardour.
“For all the long years of slavery and torment,” Brother Frentis was saying, “it has been my one ambition to stand before you and crave your pardon.”
