Daughter of Independence

by Simon Brown

  Chierma himself felt not simply as if a great weight had been lifted from him, but that for the first time he could view his previous passion for Englay with something like objectivity and not guilt. He could not help wishing his life had been different – and wondering what work he would have done, what life he would have led, had he not been chosen as Axkevleren and then Beloved – but it was not coloured by self-loathing or a total dismissal of the life he did end up having. After all, he was governor of Rivald’s second city, and one of the continent’s largest. He had earned the respect of his juniors, and possibly, he thought, the lord protector away in Beferen. True, he had no close friends or intimates, but perhaps that was the lot of a governor.

  ‘A request to assist in the expanding of the food markets in Hamewald’s west,’ Feruna said, reading from a document while sitting opposite Chierma at the governor’s desk. ‘In particular, more permanent storage structures and a widening and improving of the road leading into the city from the hills and river plain beyond. Also, pens for sheep. Apparently wandering sheep, brought in from herders from the hills, are proving to be more than just a nuisance.’

  ‘Maybe we can get Beferen to contribute,’ Chierma said. ‘The road is a provincial matter, really, although it benefits us, of course. Draft a letter to the lord protector. Make up something convincing. Provincial unity, that sort of thing. Point out that naturally Hamewald will happily fund the majority of the project. Suggest it is an excellent opportunity for any military engineers he happens to have lying about.’

  ‘And the markets?’

  ‘I agree about storage, not so sure containing sheep is our problem. After all, if the vendors in the market want to sell sheep then they should be responsible for containing them. Perhaps some sort of deal can be arranged; we’ll build them a warehouse or two and they build a pen or two, the former in Hamewald and the latter, preferably, on the city’s outskirts.’

  ‘Right,’ Feruna said, making a note and putting the document aside. ‘Now we have a letter from one of the local physics connecting water supply and dysentery, which all seems a bit far-fetched I know; but she makes an interesting point about the incidence around certain water pumps.’

  Feruna held the letter out for the governor to view himself.

  Chierma reached out to take it, but his hand suddenly slammed into the desk, making Feruna jump.

  ‘Governor?’

  Chierma stared at his own hand in amazement, struggling to lift it. ‘I’m sorry, Feruna. A twitch. Or something.’ His hand was suddenly free and it shot up into the air. ‘There,’ he said, a little shakily. He took the letter and tried to concentrate enough to read it. ‘The statistics are convincing, aren’t they?’

  Feruna nodded, but Chierma could see in his secretary’s eyes the thought going through his head. The spirit, or whatever the malevolence was, had returned.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Chierma said. ‘There is nothing wrong. Whatever plagued this house before has gone now, entirely.’ He made to return the letter from the physic, but his hand would not move. It was not simply that it felt heavy – in fact it felt no different at all – but that it simply would not move. He tried the other hand, but it too could not move. It was as if they had been nailed to the desk.

  Chierma next tried to move his feet, but neither were going anywhere.

  ‘Feruna, perhaps you can arrange a meeting with this physic. Ask her to come here so we can discuss her theory in more detail. Perhaps we can make a case to Beferen on this matter as well.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Right now, Feruna. I want to see her this afternoon. Arrange it immediately.’

  Feruna stood up straightaway. ‘Of course. Right now.’

  After he was gone Chierma tried moving his hands and feet again, but with no more success than before.

  ‘Englay?’ he said aloud.

  No answer. But he had not expected a response. This was not Englay. This was someone playing with him. And there was only one creature in the world who was both strong enough and cruel enough to do this to him.

  ‘What next, your Majesty?’ he asked the room, and felt a twinge of anger that he would automatically address his tormentor so grandly. ‘Lerena,’ he added. ‘Lerena Kevleren. Talk to me.’ He put as much authority in his voice as he could, but he could not hide the tremolo, the little quaver at the end. He could not hide the fear.

  ‘You are very forward for a governor,’ Lerena said.

  He looked around for her. Blue light shimmered over the cold fireplace, a head.

  ‘Lerena?’

  The shimmer resolved into the face of an extraordinarily beautiful woman, one he had not seen before but recognised immediately as a Kevleren. And then changed, metamorphosed into Idalgo Axkevleren. Then back again, straining for something in between.

  Chierma laughed. ‘You cannot have Englay again. Her ghost is well and truly dead.’

  ‘We will find her,’ the beautiful woman said in a voice that was similar to but not the same as Lerena’s. And then Idalgo added, ‘For we are everywhere and everything.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. You are the Sefid. You cannot have Englay because she is extinct.’

  ‘But you still love her. We will find her.’

  ‘No. Because what you think is love is nothing but passion and obsession. And I no longer feel either towards Englay. You have no doorway through me anymore.’

  The woman smiled. ‘But we are a doorway still. For your nemesis.’

  ‘Let Lerena speak for herself, then,’ Chierma said.

  ‘Then hear me speak, Beloved,’ Lerena said, still invisible. ‘Burn.’

  The faces and the blue shimmer disappeared, and in the next instant the fireplace whooshed into life. A sheet of flame disappeared up the chimney, fell back to the hearth. Chierma could feel the heat immediately, even from as far away as the desk. He struggled to move his hands and feet once more, straining, pulling, using all his strength. His right wrist clicked and pain shot up his arm. He stifled the shout before it left his mouth. He did not want Feruna or a guard rushing in; there was nothing they could do to save him, and would only die themselves.

  The fire gathered in strength, flames licking across the floor, the wooden parquetry smoking. Flames crept across the front of the fireplace, touching the wall on either side. A line of flame ran across the skirting board to the curtains not more than a tenyard from where Chierma sat, and erupted into a new fire.

  His skin started to prickle. A little tendril of smoke curled up from the cotton garter at the top of his leggings.

  ‘I knew you would come, Lerena!’ he wheezed. ‘I knew the Sefid would use you to wreak its revenge!’

  His lungs filled with smoke and he could not speak anymore, only cough and hack. Embers dropped onto the desk. He tried to push them away but was still paralysed. Flames touched his fingers. His wig was on fire. He saw the skin on the back of his hands blister and bubble.

  Chierma bit his tongue to stop himself screaming, but in the end the pain was too much.

  *

  Idalgo was laughing. Paimer was trying to ignore him while reading the latest batch of correspondence from Hamewald. A lot of it was incidental, reports and accounts and requests which he would pass on to Avenel Kendy to deal with. What he looked for were the letters Chierma sometimes sent giving his own personal review of the situation in Hamewald and near the old border with Hamilay. Chierma wrote the way he talked, and Paimer could almost hear his voice. They shared a relationship shaped by conflict and animosity and developing mutual respect; if not a friend, Chierma was probably the closest thing Paimer had to an ally in this world.

  There it was. Folded, with Chierma’s scribble over his seal, For his Grace, Duke Paimer Kevleren, Lord Protector of Rivald.

  Idalgo sat on Paimer’s desk and beamed down at him.

  Still, Paimer ignored him. He broke the seal and started reading the letter. And stopped
.

  ‘Avenel, I feel the need for a stroll,’ Paimer said. ‘I will return in a short while.’

  His secretary barely looked up from his work.

  ‘By the way, when did this correspondence arrive? This morning or yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday evening, your Grace,’ Avenel said. ‘The messenger was exhausted, and his horse half-dead. Otherwise it might not have arrived until later today or possibly tomorrow. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. I will be back soon.’

  Paimer went to his favourite gallery, from where he had listened to the grieving song of Beferen. It displayed the new Beferen to best effect, and Idalgo did not appear there very often.

  He read through the letter, hardly believing what it said. Then read it again.

  Avenel said the messenger who delivered the correspondence was exhausted. So probably not much more than three days.

  Too long, Paimer thought. Too long.

  ‘Yes. You would not make it in time.’

  Paimer turned on Idalgo. ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘Poor Chierma Axkevleren. Once Beloved. Once alive. Cooked. Baked. Charred. My dear Duke, you are going to need a new governor in Hamewald.’

  *

  The creature jerked awake in its hiding place, hitting its head on a step. It heard voices nearby suddenly stop.

  It could see a sliver of sunlight through a crack in the wall. It was day, so what had woken it? A surge of energy hummed through it.

  A change. The force that drove him on was getting wilder. Not stronger exactly, but more urgent. It was being called. It had to move on.

  But it had only sneaked into the city the night before, and the light would harm it, maybe even kill it.

  Footsteps.

  ‘Probably a possum or rat or something,’ a man’s voice said, and knocked on the panel closing off the space underneath this house’s stairway.

  ‘Do see,’ a woman’s voice said. Young.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Please.’ Pretty young voice. It remembered knowing something similar, a long time ago.

  The panel moved back slightly on its hinges, and the creature pulled back away from the shaft of daylight that sliced through the darkness.

  ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ the man said impatiently. ‘Nothing here, dearest, but . . . wait on . . . it you’ve got rats one of them has died under here.’

  ‘Oh, perfectly horrible. Get rid of it, please.’

  The man grumbled under his breath. ‘Let me have a look.’

  The creature saw the man come in and wait for his eyes to adjust.

  It may not be able to move until night, but there was no reason why it could not feed before night.

  ‘Absolutely nothing, dearest,’ the man said. ‘I’ll get a torch.’

  Before he could withdraw, the creature struck, pulled the man back by his hair, throwing him off balance, and sunk its teeth into his throat.

  *

  Paimer made sure there was no hint of a fire. He used one of the old linen rooms on the upper floor, one never visited by anyone anymore. He used an iron railing, a spear from a wall decoration, a pair of hedge clippers he had borrowed from one of the gardeners, and a handle he had twisted off a kitchen cauldron. He arranged them as carefully as possible, hiding them under sheets and pillowslips and bedcovers, then went downstairs and passed a series of orders to Avenel and Montranto, then returned to the room again and thought of Chierma, and Englay, and Lerena, and the Sefid . . .

  ‘Mourning are we?’ Idalgo asked, appearing in the middle of the room.

  Paimer did not have to pretend he was upset by Chierma’s death. It had shocked and moved him unexpectedly.

  ‘I am genuinely mystified, your Grace,’ Idalgo said. ‘He was a beast. Not worth your tears or regrets. He betrayed your family at least twice, you know. Dreadful man. Lusted after your cousin.’

  ‘My cousin?’ This was news to Paimer.

  ‘The Lady Englay.’

  ‘Oh.’ Paimer was vaguely disappointed. He had always told himself the Rivald Kevlerens were relatives, but they had never felt like it, not really. He remembered feeling sympathy for Englay once, when she was alive.

  ‘Chierma victimised her terribly,’ Idalgo went on.

  Paimer nonchalantly moved the clippers and cauldron handle, still under their cloth wrappings.

  ‘I had no idea.’

  Then the railing.

  ‘Oh yes. Lorded over her after the revolution. You saw it for yourself.’

  And then the spear. Idalgo wavered, wobbled. ‘This is interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Paimer agreed, and with calm intent removed the covering from all the iron because he thought the metal might work more effectively if naked.

  For the first time since his appearance after his death, Idalgo seemed frightened. Just a little, but enough to encourage Paimer.

  ‘Are you going to set me on fire?’

  ‘It’s reputed to be the only way to deal with the Sefid.’

  ‘It will have repercussions, you know.’

  Paimer sighed. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘So why not just let me go –’

  ‘No. When you are with me, the Sefid can learn of my plans. Trapped in iron, you are isolated, cut off from the Sefid. That’s what poor Chierma figured out. But I will not repeat Chierma’s mistake of trying to destroy you, which I suspect dissolves the trap and alerts the Sefid.’

  ‘You mentioned plans, your Grace? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Which means Lerena could as well if she set her mind to it,’ Paimer continued, ignoring Idalgo. ‘As far as I know, she is in touch with you the same way she must have been in touch with Chierma’s companion to know about his death.’ Paimer’s eyes widened. ‘I remember now! When Englay was destroyed you were crying out! You knew then what had happened!’

  ‘No, your Grace, it isn’t true. You can’t do this to me. I love you. Release me!’

  ‘You’ll stay there,’ Paimer said, and left the room.

  ‘But you can’t just leave me here!’ Idalgo cried.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Paimer said, and closed the door behind him.

  He went to his own chambers then, changed into travelling clothes and went to the palace’s main entrance. Montranto and Avenel were waiting for him there.

  ‘You remember the room upstairs we discussed this morning, Avenel?’ Avenel nodded. ‘You are to put a guard on it. Until my return – if I return – no one, not even you, is to enter that room under any circumstances, no matter what sound emanates from it.’

  ‘Of course, your Grace. But what do you mean, if you return? What might stop you? What is going on? Why are you rushing off so unexpectedly? Where are you going?’

  ‘You ask far too many questions,’ Paimer said abruptly.

  ‘That is my task, Lord Protector. I am, after all, your secretary.’

  Paimer laughed, surprising himself. ‘That is true. You keep on asking questions, then. It is my duty, however, to put you off. You will get no answers from me until I return.’ He handed Avenel a letter with his seal on it. ‘This is my warrant to you, making you acting lord protector in my place if I cannot return, or until Lerena finds a replacement for me.’

  Avenel received the letter with shaking hands. ‘You do me great honour, your Grace.’

  ‘You may think so.’

  He nodded to Montranto, and both men mounted horses waiting for them in the courtyard together with their escort.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Paimer shouted to Avenel as they rode out, ‘no one enters that room!’

  *

  After consulting with the Koegrah militia captain and arranging extra supplies for his infantry still a longmile north guarding the way to the city, it was twilight before Mikhel and the mule train were ready to move. It would be worth the delay, however. His men had been in the field for several days now, short on food and gonblack, and all of this would help a great deal. He was less happy at the
way the militia captain had listened to his story of the last few days and yet would not believe him despite the corroborating evidence from the soldiers he had sent back to Koegrah after the first attack. The captain had not even set up a perimeter north of the town. However, despite his scepticism, and probably mainly to get Mikhel off his back, he had agreed to send urgent messages to Omeralt for reinforcements.

  Mikhel had walked to the head of the column and was about to give the order to move out when he heard the scream from somewhere to his left. He looked across the street to the row of terrace houses, as did the seven muleteers along the line.

  Another scream from a different throat, cut off suddenly.

  Mikhel held his breath.

  ‘Commander?’ The closest of the muleteers was looking at him for direcrions. He appeared as scared as Mikhel felt.

  ‘I need a fire,’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’

  Mikhel walked back along the train then stopped when he saw what he was looking for. ‘Everyone here!’ he ordered the muleteers. He wanted to look back over the street, but dared not. He and the others had only one chance. He tore open the packs on the mule in front of him. Brands fell onto the street.

  ‘Quickly! Pick these up! At least one each! And light them!’

  The muleteers, already frightened, picked up on the urgency in his voice and did not argue. While they sorted out the brands and lit them, Mikhel found the next pack he needed and opened this one more carefully, excavating several small bundles of gonblack wrapped in canvas with short fuses. He took the pack off the mule and laid it on the ground before him.

  By now the muleteers were each carrying at least one lit brand.

  ‘All right, all of you over here, and bring the unlit brands with you, but be careful of this pack, it has gonblack in it!’

  They gathered around nervously. The first muleteer handed Mikhel a brand of his own. He arranged them in a circle, facing outwards, then distributed the packets of gonblack between them.

  ‘What are we doing, Commander?’ one of the muleteers asked. There had been no more screams, and they were all beginning to feel a little silly holding lit brands and standing in a circle in the middle of the street.