“Who’s Ihlsa?” she asked, stirring the porridge.
The girl drew herself up a little, chin jutting as she attempted a dignified air. “My maid.”
“Making you the lady of this house?”
“Yes.” The girl’s face clouded somewhat. “Since Mother died.”
“You are daughter to Lord Brahdor?”
The girl’s expression abruptly switched from sadness to outright fear. “You know my father? Is he coming back?”
Reva sat down, meeting the girl’s fearful eyes. “What is your name, girl?”
She took a few attempts before managing to form a reply, the word a hesitant whisper. “E-Ellese.”
“Ellese, I must tell you, your father is dead. Slain at Alltor, along with many others.”
There was no grief in the girl’s face, just sagging relief. She hugged herself, head lowered to her knees, the soft sound of weeping emerging from behind her mask of matted hair. Reva hadn’t appreciated just how young she was before, but now saw she couldn’t be more than ten, and so thin.
Reva scooped some porridge into a wooden bowl and held it out to the weeping girl. “Here. You need to eat.”
The sobs stopped after a moment, the smell of the porridge raising an audible groan from Ellese’s belly as she raised her head and reached for the bowl. “Thank you,” she said in a faint voice before commencing to attack the porridge with unladylike gusto.
“Slowly,” Reva cautioned. “Eat too quick on an empty belly and you’ll sicken.”
The girl’s gulps slowed a little and she nodded. “Did the Fief Lord kill him?” she asked when the bowl was almost empty.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Ihlsa said the Fief Lord would visit the Father’s justice upon one who was . . . cursed.”
“How was he cursed?”
“It happened when I was little. Before he was kind, as much as I can recall. But he fell ill, a brain-fever Mother said. I remember she took me into their room to say good-bye. He had fallen to a deep sleep and she said he would never wake up.” She looked down at her porridge, scraped the last few dregs from the bowl, and put it aside. “But he did.”
“And he was different?”
“Father wasn’t Father anymore. He . . . hurt Mother. Every night. I could hear . . . Through the walls. For years he hurt her.” Her face bunched and she began to weep again, tears streaking through the grime on her face.
“Did he ever . . . hurt you too?”
The girl’s head sagged again, her continued sobs all the answer Reva needed. After a while she spoke again, forcing the words out. “He would keep us locked up when he was away, the house going to ruin around us. The day before he left he . . . He killed her. He tried to kill me too but Ihlsa took my hand and we ran. We ran to the woods and hid, for such a long time. When we came back the house was empty . . . apart from Mother. We went to the village but there were soldiers there, not the Realm Guard or the Fief Lord’s men. They were doing terrible things. We ran back to the house and hid in the rafters. They came in and stole things, breaking what they didn’t want, but they didn’t find us. Ihlsa would go out and find food for us every few days. One day she didn’t come back.”
Reva watched her weep, head filled with images of a girl shivering in the dark as she huddled in a corner of a barn, clutching the carrot she had stolen the day before. She wouldn’t eat it right away because there might be none tomorrow.
“He wasn’t killed by the Fief Lord,” she told Ellese. “He was killed by a soldier in service to the queen. If it’s any comfort, his death was far from quick.” She reached for her pack and extracted the scroll-case containing Alornis’s sketch of the priest. “Did you ever see this man here?” she asked, holding it out to Ellese.
The girl’s head rose and she wiped a threadbare sleeve across her face before reaching for the parchment, nodding as she glanced at the image. “Sometimes. Father called him his holy friend. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. Neither did Mother, she would take me upstairs whenever he came. But one time I heard them arguing and went to the top of the stairs to listen. Father’s voice was too soft to hear but I could tell it was different, not like him at all. The other man was louder, angry, he said something about years of wasted effort.” Her eyes darted to Reva’s face for a second. “He kept saying things about a girl, a girl of some importance I think.”
“What did he say?”
“That her mar . . .” Ellese trailed off, fumbling over the word.
“Martyrdom?” Reva suggested.
“Yes. Martyrdom. He said the girl’s martyrdom should wait upon her uncle’s hand, when there were more eyes to see it.”