“Stay if you’re staying,” the Darkblade said. “Or run if you’re running.”
She drew a deep calming breath, sheathed her knife and went to sit down on the other side of the growing fire. “The Dark saved you,” she accused. “Your unholy magics are an affront to the love of the Father.”
He gave an amused grunt, still feeding the fire. “You have dung on your shoes from Warnsclave. Town dung has a particular smell. You should have hidden yourself downwind.”
She looked at her shoes and gave an inward curse, resisting the urge to scrape it off. “I know your Dark sight gives you knowledge, how else would you know about my father?”
“You have his eyes, as I said.” The Darkblade sat, reaching for a leather pouch and tossing it over the fire to her. “Here, you look hungry.”
The pouch contained dried beef and a few oatcakes. She ignored the food, and the growl of protest from her stomach. “You should know,” she said. “You killed him.”
“Actually, I didn’t. As for the man who did . . .” He trailed off, expression momentarily sombre. “Well, he’s dead too.”
“It was at your command, your attack on his holy mission . . .”
“Hentes Mustor was an insane fanatic who killed his own father and plunged this Realm into a needless war.”
“The Trueblade brought the Father’s justice to a traitor and sought to free us from your Heretic Dominion. His every action was in service to Father’s love . . .”
“Really? Did he tell you that?”
She fell silent, head lowered to hide her rage. Her father had told her nothing, she had never met him, as this Dark-afflicted heretic obviously knew. “Just tell me where it is,” she grated. “My father’s sword. It’s mine by right.”
“That’s your mission? A holy quest for a yard of sharpened steel.” He reached for the canvas-bound bundle propped against the yew tree and held it out to her. “Take this one if you want. It’s probably forged with greater skill than your father’s in any case.”
“The sword of the Trueblade is a holy relic, described as such in the Eleventh Book, blessed by the World Father to bring unity to the Loved and an end to the Heretic Dominion.”
He seemed to find further amusement in this. “In truth, it was a plain weapon of Renfaelin design, the kind used by a man-at-arms or a knight with scant funds, no gold or jewels in the hilt to make it valuable.”
Despite his scorn the words were enticing. “You were there when it was taken from my father’s martyred corpse. Tell me where it is or I swear by the Father you will have to kill me for I will plague you all your days, Darkblade.”
“Vaelin,” he said, putting the bundle aside.
“What?”
“It’s my name. Do you think you could use it? Or Lord Al Sorna if you’re of a formal inclination.”
“I thought it was Brother.”
“Not any more.”
She drew back in surprise. He is no longer of the Order? It was absurd, surely some kind of trick.
“How did you know where to pick up my trail?” he asked.
“The ship put in at South Tower before sailing to Warnsclave. A man as hated as you shouldn’t expect to avoid recognition. Word flies quickly among the Loved.”
“So, you are not alone in this great endeavour.”
She bit down on more anger-stoked words. Why not tell him all your secrets, you worthless bitch? She rose, turning her back on him. “This doesn’t end here . . .”
“I know where to find it.”
She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. His expression was entirely serious now. “Then tell me.”
“I will, but I have conditions.”
She crossed her arms tightly, face wrinkled in contempt and disgust. “So the great Vaelin Al Sorna bargains for a woman’s flesh like any other man.”
“Not that. As you said, I should not expect to go unrecognised. I require a disguise of sorts.”
“Disguise?”
“Yes, you will be my disguise. We will travel together, as . . .” He thought for a moment. “. . . brother and sister.”
Travel together. Travel with him? The very thought of it was sickening. But the sword . . . The sword is all. May the Father forgive me. “How far?” she said.
“To Varinshold.”
“That’s three weeks from here.”
“Longer, I have a stop to make along the way.”
“And you will tell me where to find the sword when we get to Varinshold?”
“My word on it.”
She sat again, refusing to look at him, hating the ease of his manipulation. “I agree.”
“Then you’d best get some sleep.” He moved back from the fire to lie down, wrapping his cloak around him. “Oh,” he said. “What do I call you?”
What do I call you? Not, what’s your name? He expected her to lie to him. She decided to disappoint him. When he died she wanted him to know the name of the woman that killed him. “Reva,” she said. I was named for my mother.
◆ ◆ ◆
She awoke with a start, stirred by the sound of his scattering the remains of the fire. “You’d best eat something.” He nodded at the leather pouch. “Many miles to cover today.”
She ate two of the oatcakes and drank water from his canteen. Hunger was an old friend, she didn’t remember a day when it had been absent from her life. The truly Loved, the priest had said the first time he left her out in the cold all night, require only the love of the Father for nourishment.
They were on the road before the sun had climbed over the trees, Al Sorna setting a punishing pace with his long, even stride. “Why didn’t you buy a horse in Warnsclave?” she asked. “Don’t nobles always ride everywhere?”
“I have barely enough coin for food never mind a horse,” he replied. “Besides, a man on foot attracts less attention.”
Why is he so keen to hide from his people? she wondered. Mere mention of his name in Warnsclave and they’d have laden him with all the gold he could carry and given him the pick of the stables.
But hide he did, every time a cart trundled past he averted his gaze and tightened his hood. Whatever he returned for, she decided, it wasn’t glory.
“You’re quite good with that knife,” he commented during a brief rest by a milestone.
“Not good enough,” she muttered.
“Skills like that require training.”
She ate an oatcake and said nothing.
“When I was your age I wouldn’t have failed.” It wasn’t a taunt, just a statement of fact.
“Because your unholy Order whips you like dogs from childhood and verses you in death.”
To her surprise he laughed. “Quite so. What other weapons can you use?”
She shook her head sullenly, unwilling to give him any more information than was necessary.
“You must know the bow, surely,” he persisted. “All Cumbraelins know the bow.”
“Well I don’t!” she snapped. It was true. The priest had told her the knife would be all she would need, telling her the bow was not for women. He had a bow of his own of course, all Cumbraelin men did, priest or not. The pain of the beating he had given her for trying to teach herself the use of it in secret had been matched by the humiliation that came from the discovery that drawing a longbow required more strength than she had. It was a point of considerable annoyance.
He let the matter drop and they continued on their way, covering another twenty miles by nightfall. He made camp earlier than he had the night before, disappearing into the woods for at least an hour after lighting the fire and telling her to keep it stoked. “Where are you going?” she asked, suspecting he would simply walk away and leave her there.
“To see what gifts this forest can offer us.”
He came back as the gloom was beginning to descend in earnest, carrying a long branch of ash. After supper he sat by the fire and began whittling at the branch with a short sailor’s knife, stripping away the twigs and bark with accustomed ease. He offered no explanation and she was unable to resist the urge to ask. “What are you making?”
“A bow.”
She snorted, her anger rising. “I’ll accept no gifts from you, Darkblade.”
His eyes didn’t rise from his work. “It’s for me. We’ll need to hunt some meat before long.”
He worked on the bow for the next two nights, thinning the ends and shaping the centre into a curve, flat on one side. For a bowstring he flensed a spare boot-lace, tying it to the notches carved into the ends. “Never was much of an archer,” he mused, thrumming the string and drawing forth a low note. “My brother Dentos, though, it was like he’d been born with a bow in his hand.”
She knew the story of Brother Dentos, it was part of his legend. The famed Brother archer who had saved him when he brought fiery destruction down on the Alpiran siege engines, only to die in a cowardly Alpiran ambush the next day. The tale had it that the Darkblade had turned the sands red with his fury as he cut down the ambushers, though they begged for mercy. She had serious doubts as to the truth of this or any of the other fanciful tales attached to the life of Vaelin Al Sorna, but the effortless ease with which he had defeated her attack that first night made her wonder if there wasn’t some truth hidden amongst all the nonsense.