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Chapter Seven
859th cycle of God, 5th day of Genasrise
Mirron stood at the door to Kessian's room at the end of that day. Her beautiful son was sleeping peacefully. She had left the Chancellery in Harban's footsteps and there were guards on her rooms and patrolling the gardens beneath her balconies. Jhered had seen to that but even so, she was scared.
'No one will harm you while I live,' she whispered. ‘I will never leave your side.'
Both Arducius and Ossacer had offered to stay with her through the night but she had locked the doors on everyone, determined to face her fear alone and try not to let any change affect her son. She was lucky he wasn't attuned enough to read her true emotions through her energy map but through the afternoon, she had seen him watching her closely. More than once, it was his hand laid on her to provide comfort. He didn't say anything, or ask any questions but it wouldn't last.
'What will I tell you, because it cannot be the whole truth?'
Mirron walked across to the shutters in Kessian's room and checked them again. They were strong and thick against the dusas chill that swept up the hill every year and they covered beautiful stained glass windows that must have cost a small fortune. She leaned over and kissed Kessian's forehead.
'Good night, darling,' she said.
She walked out of his room and closed the single door. Across a hall the doors to her reception and bedrooms both stood open. She didn't approach either of them. In the hall was a recliner stacked with cushions and set with blankets. It faced Kessian's door and was about as far as she could bear to be from him this night. The recliner looked comfortable but it hardly mattered. Mirron couldn't imagine sleep.
She sat down, picked up some papers she was marking. At least just this once, the tedium of the task wouldn't send her to sleep.
Mirron awoke to find lantern lights still burning away at the night. She had no idea what time it was but felt calmer and a little refreshed. The marking papers were scattered across the white marble floor, one or two having travelled almost to Kessian's door over the smooth surface. She felt a breeze on her face coming from her bedroom and shook her head.
'Idiot,' she said.
She pushed herself upright and kneaded the back of her neck where she'd slept at an angle. The palace was quiet. Mirron padded on bare feet to Kessian's door, feeling the chill of the marble on her soles. She cracked his door quietly and looked in on him, pale light from the hallway splashing across his head. Lost to sleep, he lay with his arms flung out and his head cocked to one side.
She smiled and closed the door once more, deciding she really ought to take a leaf out of his book. Guards on the doors and in the gardens, latched shutters. The Omniscient-protect-her, the Ocenii squadron would have a job getting in here, let alone one scared man of Kark.
'Right.'
Mirron walked into her bedroom and felt the cold inside through her stola. She pulled the window closed and latched the shutters. The bed looked very tempting. Lavender bags scented the pillows and the sheets were fresh and crisp. But now she was here it felt just that little bit too far away.
The bedroom door closed. A shape moved from the shadows behind it. Mirron's heart lurched and she stepped back towards the window. It was surely a trick of her eyes.
'Who's there?' she said.
It was no trick. She focused her mind and saw the flares of an energy map in front of her.
'Not another pace or I will burn you where you stand.'
'Harsh words, dear Mirron. And empty. Where will you draw your energy from in a cold, dark room, I wonder? And to what purpose. No Ascendant is prey to flame.'
Mirron flushed so hot her vision blurred. The strength left her body and she sat down hard on the stone floor, grabbing at the bed frame to keep herself from falling prone. He walked forward slowly, a hand outstretched. In the dark, his energy map shone with barely suppressed power and to her struggling mind he appeared wreathed in fire. But it was him. The signature was burned within her forever. She recoiled from the hand. She opened her mouth but no words came out.
'Don't shy from me. I am not your enemy,' said Gorian.
Her vision was clearing. His features began to resolve from the gloom to add substance to the energy map. Memories came tumbling through her mind. Beauty and power. The smile that melted her. The touch under Genastro Falls. And the fury in those eyes.
'You can't be here,' she said. 'It's impossible. Go away.'
He was still walking towards her. She dragged herself to her feet and felt her way back to the shutters. Nowhere else to go. Her heart was slamming so hard in her chest she thought she was going to be sick. She could feel sweat over her whole body and a quiver in her legs that she could not control. She fought to slow her breathing.
'Why are you frightened?' Gorian was frowning. 'I could never hurt you. Not you, Mirron. The only woman I ever loved. The mother of my child.'
Mirron gasped. She wanted to shout. To scream for help. But there was nothing in her but a terror that cast a sheet of white across her energy map, obliterating all else.
'How could you—'
'Oh, Mirron, do you think King Khuran is blind inside Estorr? I know what is going on here. The work that you do and that my brothers are doing across the Conquord. Finally, the Ascendancy is achieving its rightful place. I am proud of you all. But mostly you. Bringing up our son on your own. And what a talent he will surely be. Indeed, already is.'
'You can never see him, never know him,' she said, dredging deep for courage.
'Don't be naive. Why do you think I am here?' asked Gorian, a smile on his face.
'The prophecy was right,' she whispered. 'You're here for my son.' 'And for you.'
'I'll die before I—' Mirron shook her head. 'What did you say?'
'You must have known I would come back for you, Mirron. I love you. I always have. And you have always loved me.'
Something grew within Mirron that was stronger than fear. She surged forwards and pushed him away so hard he staggered and had to grab at the bed frame to stop himself falling.
'I hoped you were dead,' she hissed. 'You raped me and ran, you bastard. Too scared to face what you'd done. Ten years I learned to live with what you did to me. I have a life. The Academy and my son. From the moment you ran, it didn't include you. And it never will. I grew up, Gorian. Why didn't you?'
Gorian's face hardened and his energy map solidified to a malevolent deep red.
'I know you, Mirron. I know that's not true.'
'I was fourteen,'' she snapped, clinging on to her self control. 'You know nothing of me. How dare you come here and expect me to pander to your puerile fantasies. You don't scare me, Gorian. For all your cleverness you have no courage. Courage is spreading the word of the Ascendancy over the scars of hate. It is bringing truth to those who could not see it and feared what they couldn't comprehend.'
She gazed at him, finding herself almost pitying him. 'Whatever powers you think you have developed, they will serve only to destroy us all.'
'Ah but what powers they are,' said Gorian, voice low and resonant, his anger gone. 'And how much I can show you. Expand your horizons. I know the real truth.'
'Get out of here, you're making me sick. Just one scream and you'll be ashes tomorrow.'
'You won't do that,' said Gorian, taking a step towards her.
She met his gaze. 'Try me.'
But he only laughed and when he reached out towards her and his energy flooded out over her, she found she had no voice with which to carry out her threat.
The morning sun edging around her shutters woke her. She was in bed, the covers neat around her. The relief of a fading bad dream warmed her and her anxiety on waking already seemed preposterous.
She turned her head. Something was lying on the pillow beside her. She frowned. One of her shutters slapped gently in its frame.
'I loc—'
She flew from her bed, Kessian's name on her lips. She cast aside her bed
room door, past the papers strewn on the marble and the people standing in her hallway. Kessian's door was open. His bed was empty and cold.
Mirron spun round. Arducius stood there. So did Ossacer. And men from the Ascendancy guard. And Jhered. Why were they all here? And why did they wear such pain on their faces? 'Where is he? Where's Kessian?'
She knew she was screaming. None of them spoke. They could only stare at her.
'Help me,' she said, a roaring in her head. 'You have to help me.'
Mirron gasped and ran back into her bedroom. She snatched the ring that lay on her pillow. They all had them, the original Ascendants. Bryn Marr, the Westfallen blacksmith, had made them. They had been too big then, of course and he had not lived to see the teenage Ascendants put them on. She still had hers and was certain that Ossie and Ardu had kept theirs safe too.
She opened her fist and looked at the beautifully engraved Ascendancy symbol surrounding a single letter. Gorian had kept his too. She sat on the bed and let the tears come. They were all standing in the doorway.
'He's taken him. Gorian has taken my son.'
Mirron had Kessian's sailing boat cradled in her arms. She was sitting on his bed, the scent of his room drifting through her, vestiges of comfort quickly diluting, fleeting motes of energy. Gone too soon. Just like Kessian.
It was surreal. The news had spread too quickly to be contained and the palace complex was in uproar. Three ancient corpses had been found. Once young palace guards who'd had the misfortune to encounter Gorian last night. The inquest had begun. The Advocate was demanding answers, the Academy was frightened and messages had gone out to Westfallen to be on their guard. Harban had expressed his regret but it was nothing to do with Mirron's loss. He'd already left to return to Kark, speaking about impending conflict.
Mirron found herself calm and with only the vague sense that she had misplaced something important. She felt she ought to be more desperate and panicked but after the first moments of terror and with the arms of Hesther Naravny about her, she had almost recovered her self control. She knew it was transitory. Like being in the eye of the storm.
'At least we know he will not harm the boy,' said Jhered. 'That is of no comfort,' said Mirron.
'But we must remember it nonetheless,' said Jhered. 'Cling on to it for sanity if not for comfort. This is no kidnap for ransom, no snatching of a child from a loving parent for reasons of rage or revenge. He needs Kessian. And Kessian will slow him down.'
'But we know nothing. No one who saw him enter is alive and no one saw him leave at all. How can that be?' Mirron forced her hands to unclench. She put the boat down before she broke it. 'This is the palace of the Advocate.'
Ossacer shrugged. 'For ten years, we've been teachers and messengers. Gorian's been developing new abilities. Never mind this animation of the dead or whatever it turns out to be, he can obviously do other things we haven't a clue about. Imagine it and don't be surprised if he can do it.'
'Even he will have his limits, Ossie,' said Arducius.
'All I'm saying is, rule nothing out,' said Ossacer.
'We'll find him,' said Jhered. 'But first of all, we need information on how he got in and out, where he's gone. And from you, we must know what he might want Kessian for, assuming it isn't just the desire of a father to be with his son.'
Mirron snorted. 'My son has no father.'
'You know what I mean,' said Jhered. 'It's then we can form a plan and go and get him.'
'We can't take too long,' said Mirron. 'I won't risk Gorian changing him, turning him against me.'
'Don't worry, I'll have him back in your arms before you know it,' said Jhered.
'Even sooner than you think,' said Mirron. 'Because I'm coming with you.'
'And we'll be by her side,' said Arducius. 'I don't think so,' said Jhered.
'Think what you like,' said Mirron. 'But nothing and no one is stopping me going out to get my son.'
'And to kill the one who took him,' said Ossacer. Mirron bit her lip and wished it wasn't so. 'That too,' she whispered.
Yuri Lianov, Harbour Master of the Gesternan port of Wystrial, put his magnifier to his eyes and looked again at the ship making steady progress under oar towards its allocated deep-water berth. He was uneasy and couldn't put his finger on why.
Since the arrival of a Tsardon invasion fleet ten years before, this bleak port on Gestern's eastern seaboard had been cautious under his charge. Every incoming vessel was watched from the harbour-mouth fortifications and met by harbour officials riding fast boats. Lianov didn't care what flag they flew, he would not be caught out again by one ship or a hundred.
His people had flagged all-clear. Just another independent Tsardon trader from a port in the Bay of Harryn and flying the kingdom's flag proudly from her single mast. It caught in the throat to let them in but Gestern needed the trade and Marshal Defender Mardov had been particularly explicit in her orders. And the ship appeared entirely normal. The skipper was on deck by the tiller, his deckhands were at the rails and the stroke drum beat a standard pace.
Lianov looked beyond the ship and away towards the dockside. It was busy with morning trade. Loading and unloading was taking place at six of the port's ten berths. Shouts floated across calm waters and the smell of the sea, fresh fish and seaweed mingled pleasantly. Lianov handed the magnifier to the fort captain.
'Watch that ship. If it deviates from its given course by one degree, sound the alarm. Something's wrong here, I can smell it.'
'Yes, Master Lianov.'
‘I know what you're thinking captain. Too many of these feelings, isn't it?' The captain looked at him, unable to deny his words. 'This time. This time.'
Lianov hurried down the slope from the wide floor of the fort that housed his onagers and ballistae. He ran through the dark and cold of the fort and back out into the sun along the causeway that curved towards the dock. He barely took his eye from the Tsardon ship. Three banks of oars dipped and rose; clumsy like a rookie crew in training. Its wake ran away from the bow, the distance between him and the ship shortening as it neared its anchorage.
Lianov increased his pace. The paintwork on the ship was poor. Peeling and without the aggressive images of Tsardon sea gods that adorned most hulls he had seen. It was clear to him then what it was that had bothered him from afar through the magnifier. It wasn't that the images weren't there. They'd been painted out. It was a sign he understood only too well. Whatever this ship was here to do, the gods did not want to see.
The alarm bell rang out its flat tone from the fort behind him. Lianov broke into a run.
'Archers to the dockside!' he shouted. 'Dock guard to ready. Prime catapults.'
No one heard him at first but the alarm sent the defences into standard order anyway. He saw men and women looking out into the harbour, searching for the source of the threat. Onager arms were winched back. Ballista windlasses rattled and creaked as they cranked. On the surface of the water, gulls put to flight. More bells joined the clamour.
'Tsardon Trireme. Bearing south south-west. Berth seven.'
Lianov pumped his arms harder. The vessel's drum beat faster. She was going to ram the dock, surely. What could they hope to achieve? One ship. He reached the berth. Sailors, dockers and traders had scattered or been cleared from the concrete wall. Bows bristled. Swordsmen stood by. On the artillery towers, flags signalled their crews' readiness.
The bells ceased and the silence fled across the harbour and through the dock. The beating of the drum, the cries of the gulls and the sound of wavelets slapping stone became unnaturally loud. Lianov stood in front of his guards.
'Steady.'
The trireme came on, oars driving her through the water. She had to be making nine knots. Lianov frowned and shook his head. He sensed unease and confusion behind him.
'Tsardon trireme!' he bellowed though he doubted the skipper could hear him. 'Turn your vessel or we will fire on you. You may not land here. This is your only warning.'
The sh
ip came on. It was under a hundred yards distant now. Deck hands were moving forward but without urgency and without any attempt to hide themselves or brace themselves from the inevitable impact. Lianov moved to the right. He could not order artillery fire. There were too many innocents in the bay. But he had no such problem with his archers.
'Ready to fire. On my order, let's wipe that deck clean. And if anyone makes it on to my dock, shoot them too. We'll question anyone who's still breathing later.'
Lianov raised his hand. The ship loomed large now. He could hear the individual creaks of oars and the hull pushing through the water. It was unnerving. The bow was strengthened but would split apart on the deep, heavy walls of the dock. Her ramming spike would miss entirely and the whole would ride up before falling back into the water unless by some mischance, it stuck fast. 'Fire at will,' he said, dropping his hand.
Arrows crossed the shortening gap, coming in across bow, starboard and port rails. Thirty shafts in the first volley and with more archers gathering all the time. Lianov saw most of them miss but two or three found targets. Sailors were knocked from their feet or stumbled to their knees. At the stern, the skipper did not flinch.
A second volley flew. More accurate this time. Six men struck down. Lianov's grunt of satisfaction died in his throat. He hadn't seen it immediately but there was no doubting it now. Every single one of those hit by an arrow, whether in head, body or limbs got straight back to his feet and continued on as if nothing had happened. He could see blood on shirts and bare chests but not one of them reached down to check their wounds or even so much as look at them. Like they didn't know or care that they had been pierced.
'God-surround-us all,' he breathed.
Two volleys later, the ship struck the dock. Lianov felt the vibrations through the thick concrete. He saw chips fly away from the impact zone and watched timbers buckle and crash inwards. The ship drove hard up the side of the berth. His guards backed off a pace. Swords were drawn, more arrows were nocked and ready. Fear washed across the dockside. He could almost taste it and looking down at his hand, he saw his fingers trembling.
A Shout for the Dead Page 7
