by Richard Ford
As he stared at his reflection in the mirror he reached into his mouth, gripping the tooth tight in finger and thumb.
It came away far too easily.
There was no pain, but he felt a dull ache of loss as he dropped it into the bowl of water in front of him. He watched as the tooth sank to the bottom of the bowl and came to rest with a clink, a crimson trail effervescing in its wake.
At this rate, by the time he graduated to the Caste he’d be all gums, like some old crone.
The door to his chamber opened and in she walked. He was clearly getting used to it: he didn’t jump or squeal and she hadn’t even caught him playing with himself this time.
‘Waylian. I need you.’
Of course she did. Obviously there was some menial work to do.
‘Yes, Magistra. Be with you at once.’
He expected her to go at that point, and later to find her waiting impatiently for him at the end of some corridor, but instead she entered his room and closed the door behind her.
Suddenly he felt naked and vulnerable. He was stripped to the waist, but it was more than that. This was intimacy he hadn’t bargained on.
‘How are you?’
What? She’d never asked him that before. How in the hells was he supposed to answer that kind of question?
‘I’m fine, Magistra.’
She glanced into the bowl where his tooth lay in the pale red water.
‘Clearly you’re not.’
‘It’s nothing. Just a …’ Just my bloody tooth fallen out of my head, that’s all.
‘I can give you a poultice for that. The sick feeling will recede in time too. You’ve done very well, Waylian. You should be proud; you’ve shown great promise. I knew I was right about you.’
He just nodded. He’d never been good at handling praise, and coming from Gelredida it was a strange thing indeed.
The Magistra leaned in close, almost conspiratorially as though she felt awkward saying the words. ‘She did not suffer, you know.’
That one came out of the blue.
Of course, he knew who she was referring to. Gerdy had died in the Chapel of Ghouls. Butchered like a piece of meat. Waylian had done his best to put it from his mind, but all he had done was lie awake at night, picturing that scene: Bram with the knife, the black wound spreading across her chest.
‘I know, Magistra. It’s just that … I don’t know. I wish we could have …’
‘Done something more? We did everything we could. You should feel no culpability. You acted with bravery. We did everything we could to save that girl. One man was responsible for her death and he has been punished, and a terrible disaster averted. For that you should be proud.’
‘Yes, Magistra.’
Though he heard her words and appreciated them, he couldn’t help but feel some of this had been his fault. Rembram had been his friend, and yet he hadn’t seen through his facade. He hadn’t spotted the signs. If he’d done that sooner, perhaps Gerdy would have lived.
‘I think it best if we do not mention the manifestation of your abilities just yet, either. I may need you beside me in the coming months, and if it is known you have shown some talent you might be … hobbled.’
What?
‘Hobbled, Magistra?’
‘Yes. So let’s keep this just between us.’
‘As you wish, Magistra.’ Though what she meant by ‘hobbled’ he had no idea, and wasn’t too sure he wanted to find out.
‘Very good. Meet me at the Crucible Chamber when you’re ready.’
With that Gelredida left and, gods, was that another smile she gave him as she went? No, it couldn’t have been. Who was he trying to fool?
He rinsed his mouth and spat out a gob of blood. Then donned his brown robe.
As Waylian made his way through the corridors, he found the sense of shame he’d felt in previous days was gone. The other students, whose gaze he had tried to avoid and whose whispered judgement he had feared, seemed to regard him in a different light. Respect, was it? Could there even be a degree of awe?
It was clear news travelled fast in the halls of the Tower.
Magistra Gelredida was waiting for him as promised in the antechamber to the Crucible Chamber. When he approached she gave him no scornful look, no silent rebuke. She merely strode towards the great brass doors, the iron bracelets already secured to her wrists, as the Raven Knights opened them to reveal the Archmasters waiting behind their pulpits.
As he and his mistress made their way to stand before the greatest magickers in the land, Waylian experienced little trepidation. When last he was here he had felt out of his depth, as though floundering in treacherous waters, but now he felt amongst his peers — his equals.
It was a shame they didn’t feel the same.
At first nobody spoke, but it was clear Drennan Folds was waiting to pounce, winding himself up to launch his attack. His eyes — one white, one ice blue — peered down with unconcealed fury.
‘Magick!’ he bellowed when he could contain himself no longer. ‘On the city streets! The gates to the Chapel of Ghouls left open! Our own Raven Knights murdered. You have much to answer for, Gelredida.’
She met his bluster with disdain. ‘It’s not like you weren’t warned, Folds. All of you were warned and no one helped. Well, almost no one. If it were not for the aid of Archmaster Laius the city would by now be infested with … I hate to think on it.’
‘You were party to this, Nero?’ Folds turned his anger on the man to his left. ‘You assisted in this madness?’
Laius could only shrug his assent.
‘Archmaster Laius saw the good sense of aiding me,’ said Gelredida. ‘And I left him little choice. If you must rail at someone, Drennan, rail at me.’
Drennan Folds turned back to her, his face red with rage. ‘Rail at you? We should punish you severely. Practising magick on the streets like a common hedge witch. You should be-’
‘Be careful, Drennan,’ she said. ‘Just be careful.’
Waylian expected that comment to enrage the Archmaster further, but Gelredida’s veiled threat served to take some of the wind from his sails.
Hoylen Crabbe leaned forward. ‘I think Archmaster Folds is merely showing his frustration. These are testing times for us all, Magistra. I’m sure we will need to take this matter no further. Despite the reckless manner in which it was done, a potential catastrophe has been averted, after all.’
Drennan Folds looked furious at that, but he held his tongue.
‘And what of the catastrophe to come?’ Gelredida asked. ‘What has the Crucible decided regarding Amon Tugha’s impending invasion?’
It seemed none of them wanted to give an answer. It was down to the venerable figure of Crannock Marghil to reply.
‘We cannot act against the Elharim. The power needed to withstand that invading army would come at too high a price. We all know the cost of Bakhaus Gate; a debt so large cannot be paid again.’
Bakhaus Gate? What did this have to do with Bakhaus Gate? What cost?
Gelredida took a step forward. Waylian could see the frustration in her face, her jaw working hard as her teeth ground together.
‘It has never been proved that the Sweet Canker was our price for Bakhaus Gate. There is no way we can know that. And if we do not act on this, the Free States will suffer more than a mere plague. We will suffer annihilation.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Lucen Kalvor, his sharp features looking more imperious than usual. ‘The Khurtas might be pillaging the north, but they are led by an Elharim. The people of the Riverlands are civilised. They can be bargained with. This Amon Tugha would not set the Free States afire just to watch it burn. It is clear he wants something more than to simply raze the city to the ground.’
‘And if you grant him too much credit?’ Gelredida asked. ‘If you are over optimistic about his motives? What then?’
‘The decision has been made,’ said Crannock. ‘We cannot do anything.’
Gelredida balled her fists.
‘Cannot or will not? You are all fools! Blind fools!’ she bellowed. Waylian almost took a step back, such was her fury.
None of the Archmasters dared to speak after that.
The Magistra turned and left them behind their pulpits, and Waylian was quick to follow. He could hear his mistress muttering and cursing under her breath even as the Raven Knights removed the iron bracelets from her wrists, even as she made her way back through the corridors of the Tower.
He had so many questions, particularly about what they had meant when talking of Bakhaus Gate and the Sweet Canker and how those two things were linked, but despite his desire for answers, it was clear the Magistra was in no mood to enlighten him.
When she reached the staircase that led up to her private chamber, Waylian paused. It was her inner sanctum. Clearly she needed to be alone with her thoughts.
‘Grimm, with me!’ she ordered as she climbed the spiral stairs.
With not a little trepidation he followed her. She had been alone in his chamber and now he was to be alone in hers. These were uncharted waters, and Waylian could only see choppy seas ahead.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he entered, but it certainly hadn’t been such a plain and austere room. When he’d first come to the Tower, rumours of what the Red Witch kept in her chambers were rife. Familiars and homunculi were said to dwell in the rafters, taunting the caged boggits and hobs that lined the walls. Potions were said to bubble in their cauldrons day and night, waiting to be bottled in myriad vials and secreted on spider-webbed shelves.
The truth was very different.
Gelredida’s chamber was large and spacious, illuminated by a single round window. The furniture was crafted from a light wood, most likely elm, rather than the brooding dark oak found in the rest of the Tower. There was also a pleasant smell of lavender pervading the air.
Waylian had little time to admire the decor though, as Gelredida grasped a piece of parchment from a shelf and sat at her desk. As she continued to chunter to herself about ‘idiots’ and ‘short-sighted fools’ she went to work on the parchment with quill and ink. Waylian couldn’t see what she was writing but her delicate script was a wonder to behold. For the first time he noticed she was wearing cloth gloves that matched the colour of her robes and he found it curious, since she’d never worn gloves before.
‘Can you ride, Waylian?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from the parchment.
‘Erm …’
‘You can or you can’t. Which is it?’
It was true he’d ridden a horse to Steelhaven from Ankavern, but it had been the first time, and one of the least pleasant experiences of his short life.
‘Yes, Magistra.’
‘Good. Gather what clothing you have suitable for the road. You’re going on a trip.’
‘Where are we going, Magistra?’
‘I said you’re going on a trip. I have things that require my attention here.’
Gelredida finished the letter with a flourish and stood, moving to a tall shelf. She knelt beside it, fishing at the bottom until a secret compartment popped open with a quiet click. Inside were wax and seal, and Gelredida proceeded to melt the edge of the black stick of wax on the fat, white candle that burned on her desk.
‘Roll the letter,’ she ordered, and Waylian obeyed, rolling the parchment as tightly as he could.
With one hand she sealed the letter shut with a blob of wax, then pressed the bronze seal down into it with the other.
With that done she fixed him with a grave expression. There was no admonishment there; her look was stern, but Waylian could sense no anger.
‘You will take this to Silverwall. There is a small academy there, mostly scribes and artisans. There you will find a tutor named Crozius Bowe. Show him this.’ She brandished the sealed parchment. ‘He will tell you where to go next.’
Waylian glanced down at the letter and at the seal pressed into the wax. It was in the shape of a wyvern rising, wings open, head rearing and ready to strike.
‘Magistra, I don’t understand.’
‘This city needs aid, Waylian. You are to deliver a message of entreaty to the only people we can rely on to deliver that aid.’
‘But what if they don’t come?’
She smiled, her eyes gazing towards her single, round window.
‘They will come, Waylian. They always do. Now, are you ready for your journey?’
‘Yes, Magistra,’ he said.
Waylian wasn’t ready, though. He felt scared and useless and ill prepared.
But he supposed only time would tell just how ill prepared he really was.
FIFTY-ONE
There had been one hundred and twenty-six coronations in Steelhaven’s history. Governess Nordaine had tutored Janessa in the significant kings and queens of old, from the days of the Sword Kings, when the Teutonians had been but a few disparate warring tribes, right up to the establishment of the Free States. Of course, until her father had united the provinces and the city states as one nation there had still been wars and pretenders to the Teutonian throne, but the city of Steelhaven had always had a ruling monarch — a king or queen who presided over the city and its people.
Now it was Janessa’s turn. Soon, she would become Queen of Steelhaven and the Free States, but right now all she wanted to do was stop shaking.
She wore a fabulous gown too, as gowns went. The Governess had helped her select the fabrics, one from each of the provinces — satin from Braega, silk from Dreldun, lace from Stelmorn, linen from Ankavern and fur from Valdor. There were also brooches sewn into the cloth from each of the city states — copper bracelets on the sleeves, iron lining the girdle, silver leaf in the skirts and steel chains about the neck. Despite the mishmash of colour and cloth it was still a beautiful design.
Nordaine fussed with the hem, as she had done a dozen times already. Janessa guessed it was more from nerves than a need to make the gown more presentable. She had fussed so much that whatever she was trying to adjust would be fixed by now or never at all.
‘Enough,’ Janessa said, instantly regretting it as she was forced to clamp her mouth shut lest the bile rise up from her throat.
Nordaine stopped her fussing and took a step back. Janessa could see tears in the governess’s eyes and felt instant regret. She had behaved badly towards this woman, who had been like a mother to her, teaching her the proper etiquette and trying to educate her in the ways of state. Now those lessons were over and Nordaine could teach her nothing more. From now, Janessa had to learn her own lessons, make her own mistakes.
She took Nordaine’s hand, and they looked at one another. The governess would have spoken, but only a single sob came out. Before Janessa could say any words of comfort, Odaka entered the vestibule.
He no longer wore the robes she was so used to seeing him in. Now he wore slate grey armour, a helm held in the crook of his arm, a curved sword at his side.
‘Your grace,’ he said, his features grim and unyielding as they always were. ‘They are ready.’
Janessa nodded, giving her governess one last glance before walking towards the door. Two Sentinels were waiting for her, Garret himself standing further on at the archway to the great hall. He offered Janessa a reassuring smile as she left the vestibule, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.
The knights surrounded her as she came out into the King’s Hall. When last she’d been here it was empty, but now the vast space was filled with people of rank from the Free States.
Janessa could see all eyes turn towards her as she made her way through the crowd. Duke Guido Kreeler of Ankavern was the first to offer her a bow as she entered. His son Bartolomeo was absent, clearly not interested in the coronation now she had declared her intention to take the crown without need of a husband.
Young Lord Cadran of Braega was next, smiling his innocent smile, surrounded by his aunts known as the Black Roses: a gaggle of haughty-looking women who coveted the boy’s power and smothered him with their insincere affec
tions.
There were the Lord Governors Tyran and Argus of Silverwall and Coppergate, standing beside one another as their city states did, no doubt using this rare meeting to plot their plots and fuel their greed.
And then there was the Baroness Isabelle and her son Leon. Of course they bowed in deference, but Leon barely made an attempt to hide the look of scorn on his face. Clearly the Magridas did not take well to being spurned.
Janessa focused ahead, not deigning to acknowledge any of them. Garret led the way and she was surrounded by her Sentinels, yet she did not feel entirely safe. She was exposed, under the scrutiny of strangers and a slave to events beyond her control. Everything she had strived to resist had come about, and there was no way back. The image of River’s face, that scarred beautiful face, briefly appeared in her mind’s eye but she quickly shut it out. If she thought of him, of the life they’d promised one another and would now never have, she would burst into tears. There were many gathered here who would love to see that, and there was no way she would grant them the satisfaction.
At the stone throne stood the High Abbot and the Matron Mother — the holy representatives of Arlor and Vorena. It was they who would preside over the ceremony. They who would crown her queen and defender of Arlor’s faith.
As she neared the throne, the Sentinels ahead of her stopped, turning to face one another and creating a corridor of steel for her to march through. Janessa paused at the edge of it. She knew that once she walked through that guard of honour there would be no turning back: she would have to forget her past, forget her former lover. From this day on, what she would cherish would be the Free States and its people.
She glanced back for a moment. She knew she should have retained her regal air, but she couldn’t help herself.
Odaka was standing behind her, blocking her escape and the way to freedom.
Did she want to take it, anyway? Did she want to run? She had almost run only days before, when River had offered her a way out.
Odaka looked at her impassively, but despite the emotionless look on his face Janessa felt that if she decided to change her mind, to turn and flee the great hall, he would do nothing to stop her.
