Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Markenʼs beard constricted with a brief smile and Reva noted how tightly his hands were gripped together, and his staunch refusal even to look at the second corpse. It lay alongside the priest, the features more typical of Revaʼs experience, the skin a pale blue, the lips drawn back and the tongue protruding from the bared teeth, part severed by his death rattle. However, as with the priest his features were sufficiently recognisable to match Alornisʼs sketch.

“Uncle Sentes said his name was Lord Brahdor,” she told Vaelin. “Lady Veliss tells me he owned land a little east of here, good vines. More renowned for white than red.”

“Thatʼs all?” Vaelin asked. “No suspicions? Tall tales of strange powers or unexplained events?”

“Thatʼs all. Just a minor noble with a few hundred acres of grapes… and a barn.”

Vaelin looked expectantly at Marken. The big man gritted his teeth for a moment then pointed a thick finger at Lord Brahdorʼs corpse, still refusing to look at it. “This one Iʼll not touch, my lord. I can feel it, seeping out of him like poison. Forgive my cowardice. But…” He shook his shaggy head. “I canʼt. I…”

“Itʼs all right, Marken,” Vaelin assured him, nodding at the priest. “And him?”

Marken huffed a relieved sigh and turned to crouch beside the priest, rolling up his sleeve and placing a meaty hand on the corpseʼs forehead. After a moment he winced as if in pain, his mouth twisting in disgust as it seemed he was about to draw his hand away, but she saw him stiffen his resolve, closing his eyes and maintaining a statuelike stillness for several minutes. Eventually he exhaled a long slow breath, sweat shining through the mass of hair that hung over his heavy brow. He rose, his gaze resting on Reva, warm with sympathy and sorrow. “My lady…” he began.

“I know,” she told him. “I was there. Master Marken, please tell Lord Al Sorna all you saw.”

“His early years are confused,” Marken said to Vaelin. “It appears he was raised in the Church of the World Father. There are no images of his parents so I judge him an orphan, apprenticed to a priest, a common fate for Cumbraelin orphans I believe. The priest who raised him was kind, a former soldier in the Lordʼs guard, called to the church in later life, keen for his charges to acquire both his martial abilities and the fierceness of his devotion. The boy spent long years steeped both in study of the Ten Books and training for war. In manhood he endured long years of shame when he looked at women. The younger the woman, the greater the shame, and the more he looked. I sensed a compulsion to hide in the Ten Books, to find refuge from his desires in the churchʼs teachings.

“Alltor and the cathedral loom large in his memory and I believe he was sent there in preparation for priesthood. I saw him meet the Reader and receive his priestly name. They never met in public and I sensed the priest had been chosen for a secret role. I saw a journey away from Alltor halting when he finds a man with a scar, here.” Marken paused to touch his cheek. “The man is speaking before a large crowd and the young priest burns with new passion on hearing his voice. He returns to the Reader and is sent forth again. Then there are many months of meetings in dark rooms and secluded hollows, men clustering together and fearful of discovery as they pass letters and gather weapons in hidden caches. He never sees the scarred man again but the memory comes to him often. Then at another hidden meeting he finds this thing.” Marken nodded at the second body, grimacing as his gaze touched Brahdorʼs dead face. “It talks, the words are lost to me as you know, my lord. But they make his passion burn even brighter. The thing leads him to a farmhouse at night, inside an old couple sit before a fire fussing over a little girl.” He looked again at Reva and swallows. “The priestʼs shame is deeper than ever when he looks at her.”

“They killed my grandparents, didnʼt they?” Reva asked. “They killed them and they stole me.”

He nodded. “They waited until you had been put to bed. The old couple were killed, the girl stolen from her bed, the farmhouse burned.”

“And then many happy years in a barn,” Reva muttered as Marken fumbled for the right words to say.

“Any names?” Vaelin asked the Gifted.

“A few, my lord. The priest would write them down to memorise. He would burn the paper but the memories remain.”

“Make a list and give it to Lady Reva.”

She moved back to the priestʼs corpse, feeling a great temptation to smash her boot into his contented face, spoil his slumber forever. “Reva,” Alornis said, tugging at her sleeve. “Thereʼs nothing more to learn here.”

“I…” Marken stammered. “I do have his name, my lady. The Reader wrote it down when he gave it to him.”

“No,” she said, turning to walk to the tent flap. “Burn it if youʼre done,” she told Vaelin. “No words are to be spoken for him.”

“My lord,” Marken continued as they made to the leave. “If I may. About Brother Caenis…”

“Iʼm aware of the matter, Master Marken,” Vaelin told him.

“We didnʼt follow you here to become servants of the Faith…”

“Weʼll discuss it tonight,” Vaelin told him in a level voice. “With Lord Nortah. Your concerns are fully noted.”

They walked in silence back to the causeway, Reva preoccupied with the Giftedʼs tale, Vaelin no doubt pondering Brother Caenisʼs revelation to the queen. Alornis followed at a discreet distance, eyes scanning the city walls and her ever-present leather-bound bundle of sketches clutched to her chest, already filling up with renderings of the destruction behind the walls. She had cried the day she found Reva standing amidst the corpse-littered streets. Upon seeing her, Alornis had thrown her arms around Reva, convulsing with relief, provoking an old ache that Reva found didnʼt pain her in quite the same way.

“The Seventh Order,” she said to Vaelin as they halted before the causeway. “Not a legend after all. But, I suppose youʼve known that a while.”

“Yes.” His face was sombre, not quite so fatigued as it had been recently, but still he seemed to have aged much in a few days. “Though there was something I should have known, but didnʼt.”

“Brother Caenis?”

He nodded and changed the subject. “What will you do with the names Marken gives you?”

“Hunt them down and subject them to trial. If they are proved to be Sons, Iʼll hang them.”

“My Lady Governess favours harsh justice.”

“They plotted the death of my uncle, with the full contrivance of the church that has compelled the people of this fief to servile respect for centuries. They conspired with foul creatures of the Dark to subject me to a lifetime of abuse before sending me after you in the hope I would die. And letʼs not forget their attempt to kill our queen. Must I go on?”

He studied her face for a moment and she felt the harshness of her expression soften under the scrutiny. “Iʼm sorry for everything that happened to you here, Reva. If I had had any inkling…”

“I know.” She forced a smile. “Join us tonight. Veliss found a new cook, though we can offer only two courses, and no wine.”

“I canʼt. There is much to do.” He glanced back at the camp where soldiers were busy packing gear and supplies in preparation for tomorrowʼs march and the commencement of what was fast becoming known as the Queenʼs Crusade.

“She wanted me to ask,” he said, turning back, “how many men you will send with us.”

“Iʼll not be sending any. Iʼll be leading them, the full House Guard plus five hundred archers.”

“Reva, you have done enough…”

Arkenʼs slack, lifeless face, the sword in his back… The archers flailing in the river as the arrows lashed down… Uncle Sentes dying on the cathedral steps… “No,” she said. “No I havenʼt.”