by David Hair
‘Solinde, what did they do to you?’ she whispered.
Slowly the princessa turned her head. Her eyes were flat, empty. ‘What do you want, you old hag?’
Elena winced. ‘I hoped to find some way we could restore you to the girl you were.’
Solinde lifted her chin and laughed bitterly. ‘Why would I want to go back to being that gormless empty-headed bint and let Cera have everything? Don’t think I haven’t seen this, you and Cera, safian bitches plotting together. You disgust me.’
She had to stop herself slapping the girl – but someone, or something, had got to her. Gurvon, what have you done? She almost went back to Cera to ask for permission to attempt some kind of mind-healing, but she was exhausted. Maybe I can do something in a few months. ‘This won’t be pleasant, Solinde,’ she said calmly, ‘but I have to place a binding upon you to prevent any mage from contacting you. If you are still linked to Gurvon, I must sever that link.’ She reached out a hand.
Quick as a cat, Solinde leapt backwards, pressing herself against the walls of the cell as she cried, ‘Don’t touch me, witch, there is nothing wrong with me – keep away!’
Elena sighed and pinned the girl against the wall with Air-gnosis, feeling queasily like a torturer. ‘This is a Chain-rune,’ she told Solinde. ‘It will hurt.’ She placed a hand on the girl’s brow, gnostic light flared and Solinde shrieked and writhed in pain for twenty long seconds before going limp. Elena checked her pulse, then lowered her to the bed. She hated doing this, but the Chain-rune, normally used to turn off a captive mage’s abilities so they had no access to the gnosis, also cut off the mind from any gnosis-contact. If a mage was communicating with Solinde, the Chain-rune would break that link. What she really needs is psychic healing, but she resists so violently. Damn this: why is there never enough time to do things properly?
Elena left the cell with deep misgivings and watched the prison-wagon depart half an hour later with a sense of missed opportunity – but there was no time to dwell on it. Cera was in open court, hearing grievances from the commoners, and she needed to be warded.
After that day’s session Elena accompanied Cera back to their private quarters. All day Cera had listened to complaints, giving well-considered answers. Elena was proud of her young charge, but she was distracted by hot flushes and attacks of the shakes. She wore a deep hooded mantle, under which she was dripping.
‘Ella, you look terrible,’ Cera said with concern, reaching out and flicking back her hood.
Do I? Elena looked at her dazedly as the whole world wobbled, fell sideways and went blank.
She came to in her bed, clad in a nightdress, with Tarita and Borsa fussing over her while Cera pressed a cold cloth to her face. Borsa placed a bowl of chicken broth into her hands.
‘Do you think you’re any use to me if you’re dead?’ Cera demanded.
‘I’m sorry – I thought was recovering.’
Cera snorted. ‘Recovering? You’re killing yourself!’ Elena hung her head as Cera began pacing the tiny room. ‘It’s my fault. I’ve demanded too much of you. My knights can guard me – nothing major is happening until the provincial lords arrive: that’s in three weeks, so you’ve got eighteen days, during which you are commanded to recover properly.’ She took Elena’s hands. ‘I need you to stop scaring me, amica. Please?’
Elena had no choice but to agree, and for the next week she found herself sleeping not just at night but for part of each afternoon. She was forbidden exercise, and the fainting episode had scared her enough not to protest. She even let Tarita and Bursa pamper her with moisturising oils and creams. Some nights Cera read her poetry, and Tarita played tabula, but other than that, she had plenty of time to think. It wasn’t a pleasurable pastime.
With new eyes she examined her life. It was obvious to her now that what she’d believed was love had been nothing more than intense loyalty to Gurvon, as she’d tried so desperately to find a person or cause to tie her colours to; she’d needed to belong to something. Religion and greed had let her down: there was no creed or philosophy that she felt anything but amused scorn for. Wealth meant little, especially now she knew there was nowhere she would ever be safe again. She and Gurvon had been too successful. The Imperial Court would not want people like them around once they had outlived their usefulness. She had no loyalty to that Court, or its goals, and all those missions she’d told herself were necessary now felt like acts of evil. She’d abdicated her own moral responsibility by blindly doing whatever Gurvon told her. She had been an empty vessel which he had filled with poison. There was nothing she could think back on with pride since the Revolt, until she had thrown in her lot with the Nesti and foiled Samir Taguine.
She was so used to dealing with her own problems – or having Gurvon deal with them – that it never occurred to her to talk to anyone else. But Borsa came in one morning and after the usual pleasantries sat down beside her bed, began knitting and surprised her by asking, ‘Who are you, Ella?’
Not how; who. Elena looked at the old woman in surprise and almost corrected her before she realised the question had been deliberately worded. She suppressed the impulse to tell Borsa to mind her own business, but she had never confided in anyone before, not even Gurvon – especially not Gurvon, in fact, for she dreaded appearing weak. She was tempted not to answer at all, but to her shock words came pouring out almost of their own accord. So she just let them come. Giving voice to her subconscious was strangely liberating.
So who am I now? she wondered. I have a cause: Cera and the Nesti, because I believe in the conciliation and compromise that lies at the heart of their worldview. Because I respect and love Cera for her courage and convictions. I am proud of the way she confronts the daily challenges of leadership. I am proud that Cera is showing these men just how strong and capable a woman can be. I would be happy to die in the knowledge that I had died saving her.
‘But surely you must want more than just death, my dear?’ Borsa answered when she fell silent, her needles clicking.
‘Everything ends in death,’ she replied. The assassin’s answer.
‘But don’t you also want to live?’
‘Of course – and I will stay alive as long as I can, for Cera.’ She sat up a little, hugged her knees. ‘She’s building something good here. If I can keep her alive and in power, it might just take root. That would be enough. My legacy.’
‘You speak like a man: death and duty and legacies.’ She patted her arm. ‘You’re a woman, Ella.’
Elena looked down. ‘I am what my role demands, Borsa. Cera relies on me for her security. If Gurvon kills her, Javon will be torn apart. Keeping her safe must be enough, for now.’
Borsa looked at her sadly. ‘There is always more, my dear. You cannot go on as you have been. You drive yourself impossibly hard, and you let no one reach you. You let no one touch you, here inside.’ She touched her heart. ‘All the stress and fear build up inside you like pus, and you have to lance it with joy, or you will just keep on collapsing, more and more frequently, and then you will be no protection whatever to Cera or anyone else.’
She opened her mouth to do the usual Elena-thing and argue, but she stopped and considered what she was being told. She’s right, she found herself admitting: I’m destroying myself faster than Gurvon could. I’m exhausted all the time. Sleep doesn’t refresh me any more, for even in sleep my mind worries and festers. I have to acknowledge it: I’ve about as much humanity as Bastido at the moment.
She met Borsa’s eyes. ‘The most precious thing about Javon is that I feel I belong – I’ve not felt that since the Noros Revolt. After years of working with people I wouldn’t trust as far as I could spit, it’s wonderful to live with people I care for. I do understand what you’re saying, that I could function better if I had some way to let the fear and anxiety go. But I can’t see a future beyond this situation, Borsa. There are wolves all round us, and right now I can’t see how we can survive, I really can’t. I’m just one person – no other
mage would be crazy enough to join us, not when they know what we’re up against. Gurvon can just keep on hiring new people until he takes me down.’ By the Kore, it is hard not to cry right now … ‘I could deal with it when I cared only about myself. But now I’m afraid for everyone! I’m scared for Cera, for you, for Tarita, for Solinde, for Timi, for all of you. I’m frightened of failing and losing you all.’
‘This is why you’ve been driving yourself so hard,’ Borsa observed.
‘Yes – yes, exactly. After what Sordell did to me—’
Borsa frowned. ‘Sordell? What did he do?’
‘He used a necromancy spell that drains life-energy: it debilitates and then disintegrates the victim, while proving energy for the caster. It was like being aged decades in the space of seconds. If my shielding hadn’t been so effective, I would have died, like poor Artaq. Regaining what is lost is very hard. It would take months of inactivity and healing-gnosis to recover fully, but I must focus most of my energies on Cera.’
Borsa studied her thoughtfully. ‘How can we help you?’
‘I need a healer-mage, and I’m the only one in this kingdom!’ She bit her lip, galled at admitting weakness.
‘There is us, my dear: Tarita and Cera and me, all those who love you.’
‘You’re not magi – you can’t help me!’ She found she was shrieking like a harridan and clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout—’
Borsa said patiently, ‘I am glad to hear you shout. Perhaps we’re not magicians like you, but of course we can help you, my dear: we can ensure you rest; we can make you eat and drink properly, even pamper you. I have no magic, but I’ve been a mother and a grandmother and I’ve helped people recover from illness for sixty years. You need to heal your body and your spirit. You’re afraid this weakness is terminal. My old husband got the same way as he got older: he lost all confidence.’
‘I’m trying, Borsa—’
‘Yes, you are trying – too hard. You need to be gentler on yourself.’
Maybe she really is right. She nodded slowly.
‘And you need a lover,’ Borsa added with a smirk.
Elena sat up. ‘No, absolutely not – that would make things worse—’
‘Ha! What would you know? Four years here and always alone in your bed? You need some love, girl. Love is a great healer. People who love want to heal; they have energy and ambition. And I don’t mean chaste poetry-reciting love, I mean sweaty animal love.’ She cackled warmly. ‘You need to get your juices going, girl.’
Elena squirmed. Part of her agreed: healer-magi knew those in love gained something in gnostic strength and resilience, but quite apart from the lack of candidates, the thought of letting her guard down, now of all times, made her afraid on more levels than she could name. She glanced at her hands, still wrinkled from Sordell’s spell months ago. And who could love me when I’m like this? She took shelter behind duty. ‘I am here to protect the queen, Borsa; everything else is secondary.’
Borsa saw through her in a second. She reached out and lifted her chin. ‘You are capable of love and being loved. Don’t forget that, child.’
Elena looked down. ‘I am not very lovable. Especially at the moment. And I can’t afford entanglements.’
‘We are all entangled, Ella, whether we want it or not. And if you open your eyes, you’ll see that others wish to be entangled with you,’ she added archly.
‘If you’re talking about Lori, forget it – after what he went through he wants nothing to do with me.’
‘I rather think he is softening on that stance,’ Borsa replied with a knowing look.
‘What have you said to him?’ she demanded hotly.
‘I just pointed out a few things,’ Borsa replied loftily. ‘And what would be so wrong about it, after all? He admires you. He is courageous and handsome and well-liked. Just what is it you don’t want?’
Elena closed her eyes and recalled Lorenzo’s face, caught in the aftermath of Vedya’s spells, filled with gnosis-induced hatred, and then she thought how emancipating it had felt to kiss him, to be wanted by another – to shake free of the shackles Gurvon had placed about her soul.
Whatever her face betrayed, Borsa saw. ‘I think he is intending to come and see you, and in the meantime, rest. You might need your strength!’ she added with a wink.
Elena’s face burned. ‘Get out, you dreadful woman! You are incorrigible!’ she exclaimed, though she heard something she hadn’t heard in her own voice in weeks, perhaps months: laughter.
Tarita frowned and moved a pawn forward, trapping Elena’s last knight. ‘You’re not very good at tabula, are you?’
Elena scowled at her. ‘Strategy games were always Gurvon’s thing, not mine.’ It was hard to focus; she was still so tired – but improving. Despite the humiliation of needing aid, Borsa and Tarita’s babying was definitely helping. The only exercise they permitted her was gentle Indranian yoga, which was restoring her suppleness. She even treated herself to a glass or two of red wine a day, and it felt good. She had regained some of her colour, and thanks to the unguents Borsa and Tarita lavished on her, her skin was softening. Her hair, though still mannishly short, was returning to her natural honey-blonde. She was regaining a sense of well-being.
‘Do you want another game?’ Tarita asked, in that way she had of subtly crowing.
Elena shook her head irritably. ‘I can’t get interested today,’ she conceded.
Tarita smirked, put the game-board aside and was ostentatiously scratching the wall with her fingernail – she was now winning, fourteen-two – when there was a knock at the door. She lifted her eyebrows and went to open it.
She didn’t reappear, but Lorenzo di Kestria entered. He looked very subdued.
Elena clutched at the front of her nightdress. ‘Lori – this is my bedchamber!’
‘So it is,’ he said softly. ‘May I sit?’
‘Modesty forbids—’
He looked about the room with a trace of his normal humour. ‘Where is this Modesty person? I can’t see her anywhere.’ Then the levity vanished. ‘Please. I need to talk to you.’
Elena swallowed and nodded.
The Rimoni knight sat in the chair Tarita had vacated, studied his hands, then met her eyes. He looked as she felt: tired and troubled. ‘You told me not to come with you on that mission.’
‘I shouldn’t have let you.’
‘No, you needed me – but you should have talked to me more first. If I’d known more about what a mage can do, I would not have been so shocked, and perhaps Vedya would not have been able to use me so against you.’
Elena sighed heavily. True. Maybe. ‘Foreknowledge might have made you hate me from the outset.’
‘I cannot hate you – I don’t hate you now. It was only the suddenness of realising what you could do. Using fire is frightening enough, but the things you and Dolman and Sordell did – I was not prepared, and I should have been. You should have readied us, told us what to expect.’
Elena looked away.
‘You don’t trust easily,’ Lorenzo went on, ‘but I understand you better now.’
Elena glowered at him. ‘You know nothing. I’ve blackmailed and murdered and betrayed good people and bad, all for gold; I’ve committed every sin you can imagine and nothing will absolve me.’
‘But you told Borsa that life is behind you. It is who you used to be, Ella, not who you are now. The only absolution you need is your own.’
The sanctimony made her temper flare. ‘Oh yes? Tell that to the widows and mothers I’ve left behind. These were not victimless crimes – I did not just kill other killers!’
He gnawed his lower lip. ‘Maybe when this is done you can find a way to make amends – but you never will if you don’t make it through this. Cera needs you. We all need you.’
‘And I’m doing my best for you all!’ she shouted back. Her words echoed about the tiny chamber.
Lorenzo flinched and filled his lungs as if
about to shout back, but whatever he would have said, he swallowed the words unspoken and instead stood and strode away.
She stared after him with trembling belly and a bitter taste in her mouth. Brilliant, Elena. Maybe if Cera comes in you can scream at her too.
Elena recovered her strength in time for the council during the week of the Dark-moon. The court was packed with the retinues of the provincial lords. Massimo di Kestria, Lorenzo’s elder brother, arrived with a swarm of golden-skinned Rimoni knights kitted out in Jhafi robes – the di Kestria family were one of the better-integrated of the Rimoni noble houses. The di Aranio family also arrived, with their many womenfolk. Lord Stefan di Aranio was a big, smooth-faced man with the manner of a merchant on a horse-trading mission; advantageous marriages were his stock-in-trade. His sons paid court assiduously to Cera, while clashing in private with their chief rivals, the local Brochena noblemen and the Gordini family of Lybis. Elena watched with amusement as the pieces on this particular tabula board moved, but Cera gave no signs of favour. There were rumours that Lorenzo had been ordered to renew his courtship too, and Elena discovered she had mixed feelings about that: though Lorenzo had not spoken to her since she had driven him from her bedroom, there was an unresolved tension between them that was fraught with complexity.
It was the full moon of Martrois and the skies were brilliant blue. Early summer heat was rolling across the plazas and festering in the alleys; mosquitoes were proliferating in the open sewers and down by the lake, though the Jhafi servants had an ancient recipe for candles that drove the insects away, so the palace was largely unaffected by them. Brochena was filling up with people, trade tentatively returning as the merchants felt out the new lay of the land. Many goods were still scarce and the people remained wary, the purges first by Alfredo Gorgio then by Cera still fresh in their mind.
