“He did that many times?”
“More than I could count. He was skilled with the cane, leaving no scars, save this one.” She pulled back her hair to reveal the mark above her right ear from the time he had beaten her unconscious.
“Do you know where it was, this barn?”
“It sat amidst broad fields, the grass was long and visitors were rare, stern men who looked at me with odd expressions. He called them his brothers, they called him the Truepriest. There was one man though, different from the others. He came only once or twice a year, and the priest would make me stay in the shadows when he did. I couldn’t hear what they spoke of, but I’m fairly certain the priest called him ‘my lord.’”
“Can you describe him?”
“Broad across the shoulders, not particularly tall. He had a bald head and a black beard.”
She saw recognition dawn in his eyes. She waited for him to name the man but instead he said, “Go on. What else can you remember?”
“As I grew older he began to take me to the village where he went for supplies. I had little experience of other people and hardly any notion of how to act around them, shouting and pointing in excitement the first time. That earned me a beating. ‘You must not be noticed,’ he said. ‘You must pass through the lives of others leaving no mark.’ Later he would send me on my own at night, either to steal or to contrive a means of overhearing a conversation. Practice for my holy mission, I suppose. I began to know the villagers quite well, their gossip giving me a fine insight into their lives. The baker’s wife was carrying on with a tinker who came by every two weeks. The wheelwright had lost a son at Greenwater Ford. The village priest was far too fond of the ale. Then one night, I happened upon an open window . . .” I knew her only as the carpenter’s daughter. She stood before a basin, guiding a washcloth over her skin. The light from the lantern seemed to make her skin glow, her hair like gold . . .
“Reva?” Uncle Sentes prompted.
She shook her head. “The priest had been following me, every night, without my knowledge. I lingered by that window too long. The next day he gave me this.” She touched a hand to her scar.
“The name of the village?”
“Kernmill.”
This seemed to confirm a suspicion in his mind and he nodded. “I’m sorry, Reva,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I may not be the best Fief Lord, but I’m resolved to be the best uncle. And as a present to my niece I intend to find this priest and watch when you gut him. Would you like that?”
She blinked away tears and returned his embrace, whispering. “Yes, Uncle. I should like that very much.”
The days that followed saw her settling into a routine at the manor. Practice in the sword room with Arken in the mornings, lunch with Veliss and the Fief Lord in the afternoon followed by an interminable hour or more of sitting in the corner whilst one or both of them met with some merchant or lord asking for something. Evenings saw her free to go riding with Arken, her uncle having secured a place in the stables for Snorter and Bumper. They would range beyond the walls until night came, hunting when opportunity arose. Arken had acquired a longbow from somewhere, proving capable of drawing it which was still more than Reva could do, although his ability to find his mark was meagre compared to her skill with the wych elm. Every Feldrian she was also required to sit through the petitions, Veliss quizzing her on their relative merits when the whole boring palaver was done.
“I don’t know,” she groaned as Veliss asked her opinion on a disputed land grant. The land had been gifted to a former House Guard by her grandfather and now his two eldest sons were fighting over it. “Divide it in half or something.”
“The quality of the land is variable,” Veliss explained. She had a seemingly infinite well of patience despite Reva’s continued air of tired indifference. “Rich pasture sits alongside rock-strewn bog, like a patchwork of good and bad cloth. Such land is not easily divided.”
“Then tell them to sell it and split the money between them.”
“The elder brother would like that I’m sure, but the younger lives on the land with his wife and children and wants to stay.”
“‘All land is the Father’s gift,’” Reva quoted, stifling a yawn. “‘But only the man who works the land can lay claim to it.’ The Seventh Book, Alltor’s judgement on the greed of landlords.”
“So just give the land to the younger brother and risk angering the elder?”
“Is he an important man?”
“Not especially, but he does enjoy the patronage of some minor nobles.”
“Then his anger shouldn’t matter. Are we done yet?”
That afternoon she went to badger her uncle for news of the priest, something that had become a near-daily ritual. She found him in his rooms, buttoning his shirt whilst a large man in a grey robe stood at the window, holding a small bottle up to the light as he shook it.
“Reva,” the Fief Lord greeted her. “Do you know Brother Harin?”
The large grey-robed man turned to offer her a bow. “The niece I’ve heard so much about? Can’t say I see a resemblance, Hentes. Too pretty by half.”
“Yes. Fortunately for her, she favours her mother.”
Reva found herself unable to suppress a pang of suspicion at the presence of the large man. “You are a healer?”
“Indeed, my lady. Once Master of Bones at the House of the Fifth Order, sent by my Aspect to care for your uncle . . .”
“And all the heretic Faithful I allow to remain in this city,” Uncle Sentes interrupted. “Don’t forget them.” There was a hardness to his tone making Brother Harin raise his eyebrows and hand the Fief Lord the small bottle in silence.
“Same dose as before?” her uncle asked.
“Probably best to increase it. Four times a day . . .”
“Mixed with clean water, yes I know.”
Brother Harin pulled a leather satchel over his shoulder. “I’ll be back next week.” He went to the door and gave Reva another bow before leaving.
“He doesn’t address you properly,” she said.
“Because I told him not to. Seems a little silly to stand on ceremony with a man who’s had his finger up your arse.”
She nodded at the bottle. “What is that?”
“Just a little tonic.” He placed it on a table. “Helps me sleep. You’ve come to ask about the priest.”
“Let me hunt for him,” she said. “Send me and I’ll bring him back bound and ready for judgement in a month. I swear it.”
“This is hardly the best time, with the Realm Guard roaming our borders people are uncertain enough. Uncovering whatever schemes the Reader may have indulged in will only add to the alarm.”
“You know who that man is, the one the priest called a lord. I could tell.”
“I don’t know, I suspect. And I’ll not upset a long-worked-for peace by proceeding on suspicion alone. We’ll act, Reva, you have my promise. But we’ll act soft and slow so the old bastard doesn’t see us coming.”
“I can be stealthy,” she insisted. You’ve no idea how stealthy . . .
He shook his head. “I don’t doubt your abilities but I need you here. The people must become accustomed to seeing you at my side.”
She bit down her disappointment. “Why? You’ve acknowledged me. Why do they need to see me?”
This gave him pause, his brows creasing in realisation. “You don’t know, do you? You honestly have no notion at all.”
“No notion of what?”
“Reva, you may have noticed but there are no children in this house. Nor are there likely to be. I had no heirs, no-one to follow me to the Chair. But now, I have you.”
She felt a cold hand creeping across her chest. “What?” she said in a thin sigh.
“A few of your father’s . . . indiscretions have come calling over the years. Some seeking acknowledgment, only to be disappointed. Most just asking a favour or a full purse. I was happy to send them all on their way. Until you, Reva. How old were you when the priest took you away from your grandparents, do you think?”
“I know how old, he told me. I was six.”
“Your father died nigh on nine years ago. That means he took you three years before Hentes assassinated our father and plunged this fief into war. Of all Hentes’s children, he came for you. He saw what I can see.”
She shook her head in confusion. “What can you see?”
“The next Mustor to sit in the Lord’s Chair.” He moved closer, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Sent to me by the Father Himself, for surely He heard my prayer.”
“A girl can’t be a Fief Lord,” Arken said as they rode out that evening, cantering along the causeway and off towards the forested hills to the north.
“Fief Lady,” Reva said, the cold hand still gripping her chest. Her tone was flat, the enormity of her uncle’s words leaving no room for emotion.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Arken said. “You’ll have to think of something better. Countess maybe.”