It was just a room. Larger than the others they passed on the way, and in a similar state of disrepair, but still just a room, chill stone and shadow, empty save for a high-backed chair facing the door. At her request Vantil provided a torch and she began to scour the shadows, playing the flame over the walls, behind the pillars, beneath the chair.
“Don’t you want to pray before the chair?” Vantil asked, clearly puzzled by her behaviour.
Reva ignored the question, completing her first search of the room and immediately starting another, then another. Every corner of the chamber examined, every possible hiding place prodded, every shadow banished with the torch. Nothing.
“How long have you been here?” she asked Vantil.
“Came not long after the Trueblade fell.”
“You must know what I seek here.”
The old man shrugged. “To offer prayers for the Trueblade. To speak to the Father in the place of his holy martyrd—”
“He had a sword. Here in this room when he died. Where is it?”
Vantil could only shake his head in bafflement. “No sword here, and I know this keep better than any living soul. Everything got taken, if not by the Darkblade’s cutthroats then by the Fief Lord’s House Guards.”
“The Darkblade didn’t take it,” she muttered. “When did the Fief Lord’s men come?”
“They come every year, make sure the place is empty of pilgrims. We hide in the mountains until they’re gone. The last visit was two months ago.”
So many miles for nothing. It wasn’t here, Al Sorna’s men didn’t take it which left the Fief Lord, in Alltor.
“Do you have somewhere I can rest for tonight?” she asked Vantil.
“The blood of the Trueblade is welcome here for as long as she likes.” He fidgeted for a moment, his staff beating on the stones a few times. “The, ah, prayers?” he asked.
Reva gave the chamber a final glance. An empty chair in an empty room. No sign of the Trueblade, not even a bloodstained stone to mark his passing. Did he ever think of me? she wondered. Did he even know I lived?
“The Father knows well the depth of my love for the Trueblade,” she told Vantil, moving to the door. “I’ll need a bed for the boy as well.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Frentis
He found a hiding place in the hills several miles from the villa, a cluster of rocks atop a rise affording a clear view of the surrounding scrub desert, with sufficient brushwood for fuel and a rudimentary shelter. He set the stallion loose, whipping it towards the south in the hope it would lead any pursuers away. She continued to bleed that first night, thick streams of red flowing from her nose, ears and eyes, the dampness on her trews indicating she bled from everywhere she could. He stripped her and continued to wipe the blood away until, slowly, the flow began to ebb. She lay pale, naked and senseless, her breathing shallow, no fluttered eyes or groans to signal she might be dreaming. It occurred to Frentis that she might never wake, and if so, he could well be sitting here watching over her corpse for the rest of his life. The binding was as strong as ever, the itch vanished. He was hers again, even though she was defenceless, even though he wanted to sink his knife into her chest over and over. Instead he nursed her, kept her warm and sheltered against the night’s chill, until her eyes snapped open on the morning of the third day.
She smiled when she saw him, gratitude shining in her eyes. “I knew you couldn’t abandon me, my love.”
Frentis stared back, hoping she saw the hatred in his gaze, and said nothing.
She pushed aside the cloak he had used to cover her, stretching and flexing her limbs. She was thinner, but still lithe and strong . . . and beautiful. It made him hate her even more.
“Oh don’t sulk,” she said with a groan. “They were a necessity. For us as well as the Ally. You’ll understand in time.”
She grimaced at the sight of her blood-soiled clothing but pulled on the black cotton shirt and trews without hesitation. “Do we have food?”
He pointed to the only game he had been able to catch, a rock snake, caught, skinned and filleted the day before. He hung the strips of meat over a low-burning fire to smoke, finding it surprisingly tasty fare.
The woman fed on the remaining snake with evident gusto, grunting in pleasure as she chewed and swallowed. “A man of unending talents indeed,” she said when finished, grease shining on her lips. “What a fine husband you’ll make.”
They struck out in a north-easterly direction before the sun grew too hot to permit travel. A shallow rain pool nestling in a shaded crevice amidst the rocks provided a decent supply of water, though the going was hard due to the meagre sustenance of the last few days. A day and a half of slogging through the scrub brought them in sight of the coast, the woman judging them a good twenty miles north of Alpira.
“The port of Janellis lies another half-day north,” she said. “We’ll need to do some stealing, now that we’re just beggars in rags.”
Frentis hadn’t stolen anything of true value since his days as a pickpocket on the streets of Varinshold, the thievery he had been encouraged to indulge in during his time at the Order House had been much less lucrative in monetary terms. It transpired his childhood skills hadn’t deserted him, a few hours wandering the streets of Janellis netted two full purses and a decent collection of jewellery, sufficient for new clothes and a room at a suitably unremarkable inn. They were husband and wife again, newly wed and in the flush of marital bliss, seeking a ship to the northern ports to visit relatives. The innkeeper recommended a merchantman due to depart for Marbellis the next morning.
“I was expecting more of a reaction,” the woman mused that night, lying next to him. Her using had been gentler tonight, she had kissed him for the first time, trying to make their intimacy a reality he supposed. The binding forced him to reciprocate, to kiss and caress, hold her close as she shuddered against him. Afterwards she entwined her legs with his, fingers smoothing over the hard muscle of his belly.
“The wife and son of their fallen Hope die in a fiery calamity,” she said. “And not a voice speaks of it.”
Frentis willed the itch to return, to bring back the wonderful liberating agony that had allowed him to move, to be a man who saved rather than killed. He was careful to keep the truth from his thoughts, calling up images likely to provoke guilt and despair in an effort to mask the true outcome of their mission. The farmhand, the innkeeper, the boy staring up from the bed . . .
“Perhaps the Emperor has stifled the news,” she wondered. “Sparing his people the shock of it. First the Hope, now this, just as he’s about to announce a new Choosing. Not that there’s anyone to choose now that bitch is dead.” She giggled a little, sensing his surprise. “I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest, darling. It wasn’t the boy’s name on the list, it was his mother. He was just my little lesson for you. No, she was the prize, the one name that had to be struck through, Emeren Nasur Ailers, the Emperor’s choice as the new Hope, future Empress of the Alpiran Empire.” She lay her head on his shoulder, voice fading as sleep took her. “Doesn’t matter who he chooses now, all hope is gone . . .”
The voyage to Marbellis took another eight days, all the time playing the loving young couple for the merchantman’s crew. They were a cheerful lot, given to ribald jokes and unsolicited advice concerning Frentis’s husbandly duties, although his meagre Alpiran forced him to limit his responses to embarrassed laughter. In their cabin at night, when she was done, he would use the limited freedom allowed him to explore the scar where the itch had burned. There was a definite change in the texture now, the smoothness more discernible, and he had a sense it might have grown in size. But still no itch, no freeing surge of pain. Grow, he implored continually, trying to keep his frustration in check lest she sense it.
They docked at Marbellis with the morning tide, exchanging farewells and a final bout of raucous banter with the sailors as they descended the gangplank. “Right.” The woman turned to survey the city beyond the quay. “Time to find some scum.”
Like all ports Marbellis had districts where wise feet didn’t tread. In Varinshold it had been the entire western quarter, here it was smaller, a cramped slum of listing terraces clustered around the warehouse district. As they walked the streets evidence of the Realm Guard’s occupation was still plain in the gaps in the terraces and patches of ash-blackened wall. The bustle of the docks and the liveliness of the people told of a city that had healed a great deal in the years since the war, but the poorer recesses still showed the scars of battle.
“They say a thousand women or more were raped when the walls fell,” the woman commented as they passed a hollowed-out shell that had once been a home. “Many of them had their throats cut afterwards. Is that how your people celebrate victory?”
I wasn’t here, he wanted to say but stilled his tongue. Here or not, doesn’t matter. Every soul in the army was stained by Janus’s war.
“Ah, guilt for the crimes of others.” She wagged a finger at him. “Won’t do, my love. Won’t do at all.”
She chose a wineshop in the darkest alley they could find, ordering a bottle of red with a conspicuous display of coin then settling down to wait at a table facing the door. Several patrons, mostly men in various states of dishevelment, got up and left in the few minutes following their arrival, leaving them alone save for a man sitting in an alcove, the smoke from his pipe pluming in the shadow.