Daughter of Independence

by Simon Brown

  ‘I still fail to see –’

  The old realm,’ Feruna explained patiently, pointing to the figure in his book as if Chierma, sitting behind his own desk across the room, could see it. ‘Mostly silver – royals and half-royals, even a handful of crowns – but a considerable amount, at least a third, in copper, including nearly two thousand pennies. But absolutely useless unless the lord protector can convince the empress to let the old currency stay in circulation and make it equivalent to Hamilayan money.’

  For his part, Chierma could not imagine any sane ruler not allowing the old currency to hold its value, at least until new moneys could be minted and transferred to Rivald, otherwise the entire province would be virtually bankrupt, but Lerena was not someone he would necessarily define as sane. Still, he was sure Paimer would see reason, and he should have some influence over his niece. Although, come to that, he was not sure Paimer himself could be considered sane.

  And me? he thought. After all, each of us talks to a ghost. Or at least something that could pass for a ghost . . .

  ‘Arrange for it to be sent to Beferen. The lord protector can do what he wants with it then and it’s out of our hands. Until told otherwise, however, in Hamewald and along the border, wherever I govern, the coin of the old realm is legal.’

  Feruna stood up. ‘I will arrange for the transfer of the tax immediately.’

  ‘And arrange an appropriate escort.’

  Feruna left. Chierma felt guilty.

  ‘I should have considered that,’ he said. ‘The thought never entered my head.’

  ‘Maybe you are not fit to be governor of Hamewald,’ Englay said.

  Chierma left his desk to stand before the tall windows that dressed his office.

  ‘I was much better at it,’ Englay continued.

  ‘The Lady Englay was indeed better at this than me,’ Chierma conceded.

  Autumn had come to the land around Hamewald. It always came earlier this high up, the trees turning the colour of sunset, the air becoming cooler and sharper. Chierma looked out over his domain and wondered what he had done to deserve it.

  ‘You overthrew me,’ Englay said. ‘That is what you did.’

  A movement in the square below made him glance down. He saw Feruna hurrying to the barracks nearby. Good man, Feruna. Hard working, loyal to a fault.

  ‘I thought about you,’ Englay continued.

  ‘She did,’ Chierma conceded.

  ‘Stop talking about me it the third person.’

  ‘Since you are not Lady Englay Kevleren, you have no reason to complain.’

  He felt the room fill with an offended silence, and wondered if it was his imagination. Could the thing pretending to be Englay really be offended? And what was it, really? And what was its purpose, other than to torment him? A new thought occurred to him.

  ‘Is the Idalgo that visits Paimer also a fraud?’ he asked, still staring out from the windows.

  ‘You wound us greatly,’ Englay said, not sounding wounded at all.

  ‘Good,’ Chierma replied softly.

  *

  In company with both Mycom and Rodin, Lerena composed a letter to be sent to Kydan to ascertain the situation there. She thought they had done a good job. The letter was polite but regal, and asked for rather than demanded some kind of report from the new colony about its progress, although it asked in a way that meant the failure to deliver could be considered a dereliction of duty and a sign of disloyalty.

  Mycom himself had written the draft, and was waiting with pen in hand for Lerena to continue.

  ‘There is something else?’ she asked. ‘I thought we covered everything.’

  ‘The salutation, your Majesty,’ Mycom reminded her.

  ‘Oh yes. Well, whatever is usually done in such correspondence will do,’ she said. Her dead Beloved, Hanimoro, had always taken care of such details. Being reminded of Hanimoro suddenly made the whole exercise tiresome. ‘You handle it, Chancellor.’

  Lerena saw the uncertainty on Mycom’s face, and said irritably, ‘Surely you’ve written hundreds of letters in your time, Malus. I’m sure you know how to compose a suitable opening for the colony –’

  ‘But your Majesty,’ Mycom interrupted, ‘this will be received by your cousin, General Third Prince Maddyn Kevleren. Surely, since it is family, it is appropriate for you to compose the salutation.’

  Lerena stiffened with shock. Oh, by the Sefid, of course. Only she, in the whole of the old world, knew that Maddyn was dead. And by her hand; that knowledge sent a thrill through her body. But carefully, Lerena. Carefully. Sacrificing your own family to destroy the capital of your greatest rival was one thing, but murdering the empire’s best general out of spite and revenge was another.

  ‘But it was well done,’ Yunara said.

  ‘I thought you loved him,’ she replied.

  Mycom looked startled. ‘Me, your Majesty? Love Maddyn?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Lerena demanded.

  Mycom now looked confused. Rodin, by his side, was obviously unsettled.

  ‘Rodin will write it,’ Lerena said dismissively. ‘Maddyn is his cousin as much as mine. Now leave me, both of you. I need to be alone.’

  Both men bowed and retreated from her presence, a little more hastily than usual.

  ‘That was close,’ Yunara said.

  ‘You did love Maddyn,’ Lerena persisted.

  ‘Not as much as I love you, sister,’ Yunara soothed.

  But Lerena was not soothed. ‘You loved him so much that when he spurned you for his whore you tried to have him killed.’

  ‘Which is why I admire what you did. You managed it where I could not.’

  Lerena shook her head. Of course. Yunara was right. Why had she ever thought there was a discrepancy? Yunara’s words and feelings were entirely at one. And yet she had known from the beginning, when she’d first recognised Idalgo’s presence, that they were not really ghosts. She was sure the Sefid was manifesting itself as perfect copies of the dead; nothing else, in her experience, had such power. What Lerena did not know was how or, even more importantly, why the Sefid was doing it.

  The sergeant of the court appeared. ‘Ambassador Avenel Kendy is here, your Majesty, as you requested.’

  Lerena looked up and saw the round, balding figure of Leader of a Thousand Avenel Kendy, ambassador to her court from Rivald, dressed in his official powder-blue jacket and with his ceremonial hanger in its powder-blue scabbard, like a toy sword. Her gaze hardened and she leaned towards him.

  ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ she demanded.

  Avenel swallowed, not sure what he had done to warrant such an unfriendly greeting. ‘Your Majesty, this is my usual dress when I present myself to your court. It is the ambassadors frock co . . .’ His voice faltered, disappeared in a slight whine.

  ‘Exactly,’ Lerena said. ‘Since there is no longer a kingdom of Rivald, you are no longer its ambassador. Indeed, you are a subject of mine now.’

  Avenel bowed as deeply as he could. ‘Of course, your Majesty.’

  ‘And are you one of my family? Are you one of my generals?’

  Avenel shook his head, mute, overcome by his situation.

  Lerena nodded to his hanger. ‘Then by what right do you come before me with a weapon by your side?’

  Avenel gave a little yelp, unclasped the hanger from its belt and threw it away from him. ‘Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness!’

  Lerena rested back in her throne and smiled. Suddenly all the anger was gone, replaced by the memory that she had always considered the little man from Beferen in a genial light. He was harmless and well-intentioned. Posted above his station by the Safety Committee in Rivald, he had always struggled to do his best since arriving in Omeralt.

  ‘Well, I have good news for you,’ she said almost sweetly.

  Avenel took a great breath of relief. ‘I am anxious to hear it, your Majesty,’ he said, and bowed again for good effect.

  ‘I’m sending you ho
me.’

  Avenel almost gasped. ‘Home?’

  ‘To Beferen. As you are probably aware, I have made Duke Paimer Kevleren my Lord Protector of my province of Rivald.’

  ‘All Hamilay knows of your wise decision,’ Avenel said.

  ‘But although he is acquainted with Rivald, he does not yet know it as a friend. That will take time. And your help.’

  ‘My help?’

  ‘I trust you, Avenel Kendy. And I like you too.’

  Avenel smiled wanly.

  ‘So, since you can no longer be an ambassador, I thought I would make you a secretary. The lord protector’s secretary.’

  Avenel did not know what to say. He opened his mouth to thank her but no words came out. Instead he combined a grateful smile with a confused shrug.

  ‘You will leave on the morrow. I will send with you your warrant and some communications I wish you to deliver to the duke. You may go now.’

  Avenel almost seemed to disappear he moved so fast.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ Lerena asked.

  Yunara sat at her feet, smiling. ‘Why, as Kevlerens always do, we were talking about love, of course.’

  *

  The creature did not know how long it had been asleep. It roused slowly, but found it did not have the strength to move anything except its head. It opened its eyes. The inside of the cottage slowly came into focus, and it remembered where it was. It expected to feel hungry, but instead still felt mildly full, as if it had eaten a huge feast in the not too distant past. It turned its head sideways and, with something akin to surprise, found itself staring into another pair of eyes, the irises swimming in seas as yellow as its own. The girl, it remembered. It had killed her without eating her, and by so doing had infected her. And now they were alike. Some of its exhilaration returned, and with it some of its guilt. Then slowly, sleep came again, creeping over it like night over day.

  7

  Arden felt ambivalent about the sea. It was not that he got seasick, or that he disliked the smell of it, or was afraid of drowning, but that it always represented changes in his life that were taken by choice but were nonetheless inevitable. He could no more have stayed in Kydan, knowing how things stood between him and Heriot Fleetwood, than he could have stayed in the old world, knowing how much he had loved Hetha and yet how much he had learned to hate the Kevlerens for all the things they had done to people like him. What awaited him in Sayenna he did not know, other than the opportunity to work, to create, to help, and to not think about Heriot or Hetha, to not think about what it meant to be an Axkevleren without a mistress, to not think about what it would be like to sexually desire another person.

  Arden spent almost his whole time in the bow of Annglaf, as still and stiff and imposing as a figurehead. For a long time no one came near him, except Avier who felt something like pity for the giant, but Arden was not interested in pity or conversation and Avier eventually left him alone to peer forward from the ship, staring straight into the future.

  It was Quenion, in the end, who drew Arden away from the sea and back into human company, or rather her own obvious need for help. As alone as Arden but lost in her own world of self-hate and guilt, it was the grief and pain in her face that attracted his attention. The fifth day out of Kydan she appeared on the top deck, large and cumbersome, without sea legs or a tough enough stomach, puking over the side. When she finally stood up, cleaning her mouth, she saw Arden staring at her. No one else but she could have seen the invitation there, and she joined him. She found the sea spray splashing over the bow helped revive her, and the pair stayed that way, together and wordless, for a long time.

  Then, when the sun was almost right overhead and the sea all around was as opaque as green glass, Arden said, ‘The Kevlerens say they love us, but they have never themselves known what love is.’

  ‘That is not true!’ Quenion declared, desperately struggling to remember how Numoya had loved her, how he had shown his love and expressed it.

  ‘What they feel towards us is need,’ Arden continued. ‘They need us because they are afraid of themselves. We do not need them, but because we are children when they take us they convince us we love them, and because we are children we truly do learn to love them. Children are like that; they can be beaten and cursed and despised and used and told that they are being loved, and although they will be confused by it they will believe you.’

  ‘No, It is not like that. It was never like that. Not for me.’

  ‘Not when you were a child?’

  ‘No. Not ever.’

  ‘But because of what we are, Quenion, when our bodies and minds grow up, inside, in our hearts, we are still children. We are still told we are loved, when we are not, and that we must love in return, which we do.’

  *

  Gos watched the new Sayenna militia swinging their way back to the town in close order, admiring their liveliness even after a two-day forced march along The Wash and back again. Between them, Gos and Velan had now organised two companies of local infantry, assigning them in rotation between watch duty at the keep and harbour and training sessions based at the fields and barracks Numoya had originally built for his own army. Most of the soldiers had once fought for Numoya, but their loyalty had been to Sayenna and the local area rather than Rivald, and once they saw how softly lay Kydan’s hand on their home they were more than willing to resume soldiering in a new uniform. They were certainly pleased to see their old drill master, Velan Lymok, back with them, and Gos admired the way the officer handled them. Velan had a real flair for getting them to do what he wanted. Gos could not help being envious, but admitted the envy to himself and resolved to work around it. Nevertheless, he could not do anything about the niggling worry at the back of his mind that Velan could not be completely trusted, and the ability to get troops to do what he wanted might not, in the end, be in Kydan’s best interests.

  Velan Lymok came to Gos and saluted. ‘The company has returned in good order, and all are present and accounted for.’

  ‘It was well done,’ Gos said, trying to sound magnanimous.

  Velan smiled. ‘Thank you, Commander.’

  ‘When is the next rotation?’

  ‘Two days’ time.’

  ‘Give them tomorrow off, then. Do you plan to do the same march with the other company?’

  ‘Indeed, with your permission.’

  Gos nodded. ‘You have it.’

  Velan swallowed and said, ‘Any news since I’ve been away?’

  ‘It’s only been two days.’

  ‘I know, but . . . I understand you feel at a loose end here, but imagine what it is like for me. I do not know what is to become of me. I wish the matter resolved, one way or the other.’

  Despite his antipathy for the man, Gos felt a pang of sympathy. ‘Let me think about it. Perhaps there is something I can do. Perhaps you could return to Kydan and help train the infantry there.’

  Velan’s face showed his disappointment, but he said, ‘If that is what the council decides, I will do it, of course.’

  Gos felt his suspicions of the man rise in him, but told himself not to be ridiculous. He was an officer who had experienced independent command, once a member of Rivald’s Safety Committee itself, if what Velan had told him was true. Of course he wanted more than simply to train raw recruits.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Gos repeated.

  *

  The last time Quenion Axkevleren had made the journey between Kydan and Sayenna had been by water, but along the rivers that ran between the cities. She had spent the journey cradling the burned and delirious Numoya Kevleren in her lap, desperately trying to get him to safety, hoping there was something she could do to save his life, ease his pain, bring him back his glory. And now she was returning to Sayenna, cradling her own burned, wounded and grieving life as a mother does a child. Or an Axkevleren a Kevleren.

  In between these two journeys had been another by sea, in the company of Numoya on his way to assault Kydan. A shorter, lif
e-changing journey that had resulted in her finally winning her master’s love, and then discovering that his love demanded everything from her in return for nothing but the occasional compliment and confidence.

  Arden, terrible Grim Arden, was right. With the Kevlerens, love went in only one direction. And yet she remembered that her love had not been twisted or perverse because of that. It had still been love, with all the ferocity and passion and loyalty all Axkevlerens showed. In the end, it had not been Numoya who had killed the love she held for him; she had killed it, and of her own free will, because she learned that as far as her master was concerned, love was a weapon.

  With the sun lower now the sea changed, became less opaque. Dolphins ran before the schooner, riding the bow wave. Deep down, she could sense things moving far beneath them. Life swirling and swimming, surging through all the oceans of the world, not caring a whit for the life and death of a single Kevleren. As far as the world was concerned, the Kevlerens were as nothing, as the fish in the sea.

  And what am I, then? she asked the world. If the life of someone as powerful and glorious as Numoya means nothing, then what value have I? And then, sounding as if it was coming from the bottom of the ocean, her own voice said, You survived.

  Quenion gasped, then sighed. Air filled her lungs, her body, made her feel light-headed.

  She had survived.

  *

  Gos finished checking the watch around the harbour and keep, poked his head into the dragoons’ mess to let them know he was still alive and keeping an eye on them, then slowly made his way back to his own room near the top of the tower. His muscles ached, his back was sore, and bruises on his fore- and upper arms from fencing practice with sabres two days before had still not disappeared. All the signs of getting old, he told himself, not wanting to believe it. Until recently he had never thought about getting old, had always thought he would be killed in battle before it was an issue. But despite the best efforts of various enemies, he was still alive and relatively hale and hearty.

  His train of thought was broken by a moan coming from the door he had just passed. The door to Velan Lymok’s room, he realised. He paused, and listened. Nothing. It must have been his imagination. Or maybe he had a woman with him.